Ships in the Night
by SylvieT
Summary: "Two ships that pass in the night...takes a while for the fog to clear," Sara Sidle told Ray Langston in 11.07 Bump and Grind. Can the fog ever lift for her and Grissom? A look at their relationship toward the end of season 12. GSR, a case file and some DB Russell too.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know I said I'd take a break from writing, but hey what can I say, I'm an addict. This is a look into Grissom and Sara's relationship toward the end of season 12, mainly from Sara's point of view. The story takes place sometime after 12.18 Malice in Wonderland, but before the end of the season – only because we haven't been shown it here in the UK yet and I don't know what happens.

This story is going to be a short one – by my standards – and will feature quite a bit of DB, because I like him and I think Grissom and him would have worked well together, and a case file. Also it's a WIP because I write best that way and I can adapt the story as I go. I hope you'll enjoy. Let me know in a review, and as usual ideas and suggestions and comments are welcome and a great source of encouragement.

* * *

Ships in the Night.

* * *

"Oh, good, I was hoping you'd come in early."

Hand on her locker door Sara turned with a start toward the doorway, her face impassive at the sight of her supervisor casually leaning against the doorjamb.

"Sorry," Russell said with an easy smile, "didn't mean to startle you." His smile lingered but his expression darkened slightly and Sara's eyes averted before he saw through her and asked what was wrong. "Get changed into coveralls I'm taking you out."

Her lips curling into a smile before she could control the reflex, Sara flicked enquiring eyes up at him, noticing that he'd already donned said-attire himself. "Hair up or down?" she asked, attempting to match his jovial tone.

"DB out somewhere in Seven Hills," he replied with an easy lift of his shoulder.

Sara sighed, nodding. "Definitely up then." Uncomfortable under his quiet scrutiny she turned back to her locker, making to rummage inside.

"You drive," he said after a beat, and she could feel his eyes still studying her.

She nodded without turning. "I'll meet you in the lot in ten," she said, and with a sigh removed her leather jacket, neatly hanging it on a hanger.

There was a brief pause. "Sara, you okay?"

Her eyes closed wearily. "Sure," she said, flicking her gaze over her shoulder. "I'm just…" Her shoulder lifting, she forced a brighter smile. "I'll just get changed and grab my kit."

DB stared at her a little longer before widening his smile. "All right. I'll grab the radios and the keys to the truck."

Sara was lacing her left boot when her phone went off. Pulling it out of her pocket she checked the display, hesitating for the briefest of moments before sending the call to voicemail. Then slowly she got up from the bench, picked up her gun and after checking it was loaded but made safe placed it in her field case. It was only as she made her way through the lab's maze of corridors that she brought the phone to her ear, checking the message.

"Sara, honey, I'm sorry. I—I didn't mean to…" A sigh and after a pause his voice came back on, soft and contrite. "I'm sorry I upset you. Call me when you get a minute, okay? If not…I guess I'll see you in the morning."

The bright May sunlight as she exited the building made her pull her sunglasses on and schooling her features into a neutral look she put her phone away and strode purposefully to her awaiting supervisor.

"Ready?" he said as she joined his side at the back of the truck. Nodding, she stowed her kit next to his and he slammed the trunk shut. "Keys are in the ignition."

"You sure you want me to drive?"

He gave her a definite nod. "Sure. You know the way better than I do. Besides, it'll save you brooding."

His comment raised a smile, and shaking her head she watched him climb in before following suit. "I'm not…brooding," she said, pulling her seatbelt on, "I just got stuff on my mind."

His eyes narrowed teasingly. "Whatever," he said, in a singsong voice.

Sara turned the key, cranked the air conditioning up and after putting the truck in reverse backed out of the space. Driving would do her good, she thought as she pulled out of the lot, Russell was right about that, and hopefully get her out of this _funk_ she'd found herself in ever since Grissom had got back from Sydney.

"So," she said, as she headed east to join the I-215, "That's all we got? DB out somewhere near Seven Hills?"

He let out an easy laugh. "Yeah, that's all we got," he said, adding when she shot him a look, "For now."

With a shake of the head at his apparent laidback manner, Sara put her foot down and let the speed and flashing scenery clear her mind. Twenty minutes later she slowed down, taking a right turn off the interstate following the signs to Seven Hills, one of the more exclusive areas of Vegas.

"Feeling better?" DB asked, and she gave him a wide grin, which he returned knowingly, and then without missing a beat, "Wow, nice neighbourhood!"

Sara flicked her gaze off the road to the Italian inspired luxury houses, architecture and community all around. "Yeah," she said, a wistful smile forming, "Grissom and I looked at a house here once." Her smile faded and she gave her head a shake. "Everything was…just out of our price range."

"No kidding," DB deadpanned, and Sara threw him a mock-aggrieved look. "I should think it's out of most people's price range. Doesn't hurt to look, though, does it?"

The remainder of the drive went on in companionable silence, Russell eventually pulling out a slip of paper out of his pocket with the exact location of their crime scene, and Sara followed the road up the hill to an isolated ranch-style house on the edge of a new development.

A top of the range Cadillac Escalade, two police cruisers as well as a nondescript detective sedan took up the length and width of the driveway so Sara pulled up a little further up on the roadside. Kits in hand they were making their way to the front door of the house when the uniformed officer standing guard there motioned them on, and sharing puzzled glances they followed the side path round to the back of the property.

Sara scanned her eyes over the yard, a large, immaculately-kept oasis of greenery with lush lawns and small islands of colourful shrubs scattered here and there and along the perimeter fence. On the right hand side, a long, large outdoor swimming pool, its deep-blue water shimmering invitingly beneath the bright blue sky.

Further on from it stood a pool house, a scaled-down replica of the main house, down to the red terracotta roof tiles and white-washed walls. From their vantage point the views of the surrounding desert were spectacular, and Sara let out an involuntary wistful breath.

"Yeah, me too," Russell said, a trace of regret in his tone. "Just think of the water bill."

Frowning Sara turned her head toward him. "You got to quit doing that," she said.

"Doing what?" Russell gave her a broad grin but before she could answer him he slid his sunglasses to the top of his head and turned toward Brass closing the distance to them from the pool house. "What have we got?" he asked.

"We got one female dead body," Brass replied, swiping the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. His shirt was crumpled and sweat-stained, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "We think that of Melinda Carver, thirty five, domiciled here, but…we're still looking into it."

Sara's brow rose in puzzlement. "How come?"

"It's hard to tell from looking at her. She took a blow to the head, and she's lying face down so we couldn't get a clear ID. Also, she's…" he gave a wince, "been here a while."

The face DB pulled in disgust made Sara smile. "What?" he said, flicking his eyes over at her. "You know…" he made a wriggling motion with his fingers, "them and me aren't the best of friends."

Sara's smile widened. "Too bad Nick's away."

"Yeah, too bad." DB's face took on a distant look. "Maybe I can call Greg in on this little get-together."

"On his night off?"

DB made a face, then sighed. "Anything else?" he asked Brass.

"If it is indeed Melinda Carver lying there, she was reported missing last night. From the report I gather she was last seen a week ago."

The thought that no one had thought or cared enough to report her missing sooner filled Sara with sadness. "She lived alone?" she wondered, her tone surprised, considering the size of the house and array of expensive toys near the pool. No husband or hired help to report her missing?

"Something else we're looking into," Brass said. "But we know she was in the middle of a messy divorce."

Sara nodded toward a child's pedal car nearby. "What about the kids?"

Brass consulted his notes. "One. A boy aged six. Timothy Carver. We're trying to get a hold of the husband and see if the boy's with him, but so far no luck."

"I take it the husband wasn't the one to report her missing," she remarked wryly.

"No," Brass said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Her work people did. She's a realtor in Henderson."

"Figures," DB mused under his breath with a backward glance at the house and garden. "Your men searched the house?"

"It's empty. A little messy in the kitchen but no signs of a disturbance. Day-shift coroner's in court and David's helping cover for him. He says someone'll be here as soon as they can." Brass jerked his head over his shoulder. "The body's inside the pool house over there." He took a step back, indicating with his hand that the two CSI's should precede him there.

"The front door to the house was locked when the unit came round to check on the missing persons report," he went on as they walked, "but the side gate was open. They saw the body through the glass doors. It was clear to them that it had been there a while, so they called it in."

"Didn't they go in?" Sara asked, surprised.

"Briefly. But well…" Sara turned to look over her shoulder, and flashing her a wicked grin Brass lifted a mild shoulder, "here you are now."

They stopped and stared through the large, glass folding sliding doors at the already-decomposing body of the woman lying on her front. Her face was turned toward them, still made-up, and Sara winced at the insect activity in and around the wound. Her eyes slid down the length of her, taking in what looked like a one-piece swimming costume with matching sarong tied around her waist and bare feet.

"I'm no bug guy," Brass said, "but this looks like she's been dead more than a week to me."

Sara's eyes veered to the glass doors. She couldn't fail to notice the many finger marks near the handle, smudges most of them, and glancing at her boss she knew he'd noticed them too. "The blinds are open," she remarked. "We've had unseasonably high temperatures this past week. Sun beating down on her through these glass doors all day long would have considerably accelerated timetable of decay."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Russell said, pointing a finger at her. He was about to say something else when he thought better of it. He put his case down and opened it. "Come on," he said, "Let's get this over with."

"Mind if I watch from out here?" Brass asked.

"Be our guest."


	2. Chapter 2

After donning the mandatory booties and gloves DB slid the folding door open a crack, motioning with a wide smile and an open hand for ladies to go first. Sara stepped in with a shake of the head, her returning smile immediately contorting into a grimace at the overpowering stench, the back of her hand coming up to her nose. Careful with every step she took she put her kit down a little out of the way.

"Close the door after you," she told Russell, wincing as she popped the locks on her case, "See if we can keep these flies in."

His own face screwed up in disgust Russell nodded and reached back, sliding the door tightly shut after him. Sara rummaged in her kit and retrieved an old pocket-sized tin pot of Vaseline. She twisted the lid off it, rubbed a thin strip of jelly under her nose before passing it and the lid to her boss. "It'll help," she told him, "a little."

Russell stared at the pot with a frown, gave it a smell then dipped the tip of his index finger in it before swiping it under his nose, his face pursing favourably as he sniffed. "There's no label," he said, his frown deepening, "What is this? Petroleum jelly with essential oils?"

Sara gave a chuckle. "Lavender mixed with Anise and a little basil – Grissom's own recipe. Menthol-based products open up your nasal passages, allowing more stench in than it keeps out."

The suitably-impressed look on his face as Russell screwed the lid back on the pot before tossing it back to her filled Sara with pride. "He should market this stuff."

Her head shaking in amusement, Sara swapped the pot of Vaseline for her camera, then standing up did a three-hundred-and-eighty-degree rotation, snapping a few overall shots as she took in the scene before her, her eyes eventually coming to a rest on the body. Stepping as close to it as she could without disrupting it or the blood and bugs around it she took a couple of close-up shots. Eyes narrowed in concentration, she circled the body, studying its position, taking a few more shots before coming to a stop near the head and dropping down to her haunches.

"Good quality seals on these doors kept the stench in," Russell remarked, moving past her and the body before crouching down, "which might explain why no one noticed anything."

She nodded her reply and hearing the clicking sound of his camera swivelled toward him. "What have you got?" she asked, noticing an inch L-shaped scale on the terracotta floor tiles.

"A few blood drops," he replied thoughtfully. Then he leaned his head right down and to the side parallel to the ground, twisting his face this way and that checking the tiled floor nearby for more blood.

Sara returned her attention to the body, leaning a little forward to closely examine the wound without touching the body. More clicking sounds were heard as Russell moved around the crime scene, and then a door opened and shut behind her. She looked up and round at her boss, her brow rising enquiringly.

"Bathroom stroke shower room," Russell replied, eyes scanning over the room. His gaze narrowing in interest, he looped his camera strap around his neck while walking over to a white wooden chest overfilling with toys at the far end of the room and picked up a black plastic gun. "My son had one of these," he remarked musingly, "the one at UNLV," and then pointing the gun over at the body he went, "Bang, bang."

Sara considered his theory with due care. "Maybe," she said, "Hard to tell without touching the body." Her face took on a thoughtful expression. "Where's the blood spatter associated with a gunshot wound, though? Apart from these few drops you found," she added, indicating the area he'd isolated, "all we have is the pool where she bled out."

Russell gave a nod. "Same for a BFT," he said, "That too would have left some cast off." Then he joined her side, craning his neck to peer more closely at the head wound, and gave a wince. "I guess we'll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure. So, what's _your_ first blush?"

Sara looked up over at where he stood before swivelling on her heels toward the counter at the back of the room. Her eyes took in the expensive sound system which ruled out a robbery gone wrong, the cluster of liquor bottles on the corner of the counter touching the wall, the glass cabinet full of glasses on the wall beyond it, and she could well imagine that this family space had housed many a barbecue and pool party over the years.

"A pitcher and _two_ tall glasses on a tray on the counter; one with a straw," she said at last, refocusing. She pushed to her feet, headed to the counter, and picked up a bottle of sunscreen lying nearby, its lid flicked up. "Kid's factor 30," she read before lifting the bottle in Russell's eye line, putting it back down when he nodded that they were on the same page, "Suggests little Timothy was here shortly before death."

"Or during," Russell said quietly, voicing thoughts Sara didn't want to contemplate just yet.

Her expression darkening she gave a slow nod, then cast another assessing eye round the room, the deep couch with the cushions a little askew as though a child had sat on them, or jumped on them, the elegant pictures on the walls, the tall, dark Mahogany statue of a cat in one corner. She could imagine the mother mildly chiding her son for the jumping on the couch or the two of them sitting there as she read to him from one of the books on the shelf.

She could imagine her picking up toys after toys after him, applying sunscreen on his body, on his face despite the squirminess, insisting that he wore his cap as he played in the sun or in the pool. She could hear their laughter, a child's giddy giggle echoed by a mother's deeper laugh. Something very tragic had happened here to disrupt this quiet, happy scene, and so far, apart from the presence of the body and the notable disappearance of the son, they had no real evidence that a crime had been committed at all.

"No signs of a struggle or forced entry," she went on, adopting her professional tone and giving her head a shake to rid herself of her melancholy, "No weapon or cast off which would indicate trauma and the use of force." She paused and met DB's eye. "Could she have fallen maybe? Collapsed and hit her head on the ceramic tiles?"

Russell considered her words, but he didn't look any more convinced than she had sounded. "Maybe," he said, unconsciously swatting a fly away from his face, leaving unsaid what she was thinking, "What about the little boy?" and asking instead, "So how do we proceed?"

Sara made an uneasy sound, somewhere between a scoff and a snort. "You're asking me?"

"Sure. You're the one married to the bug guy." Sara let that one pass without a retort and Russell made a winding motion with his hand. "Just talk me through it so I get my head round it all."

Sara's shoulder lifted. "So much insect activity generates a lot of heat," she said, "so we won't be able to rely on David getting an accurate liver temp."

He was nodding. "So ascertaining TOD comes down to estimating how old these little beasts are."

She smiled. "Exactly."

Russell's smile was fond. "Hubby's rubbed off on you, hasn't he?"

Sara's returning smile was just as fond, but for different reasons. "Yeah, he has." Her eyes averted back to the body. "This is going to be painstaking―"

"It's a two-man job at least, I agree."

She nodded. "We're going to have to collect samples of all the different larvae, maggots and so forth, in their varied stages of instar, and then there's the flies to content with; put them all in separate vials to take them back to the lab so we can begin to build a timeline. Rear them―"

Russell, who throughout Sara's little monologue had nodded his head in a keenly agreeing manner, made a non-committal sound. "Rear them," he repeated contemplatively, and sighed. "We're going to need help on this, Sara, and that's why I'm thinking we need an expert; someone who can do this with his eyes closed; someone who most probably owns a flycatcher or something; someone whose skill will stand in good stead when this case gets to court." There was a laden pause, but Sara didn't take the bait. "So, where's he at the moment?"

"Who, Nick?"

"No," Russell laughed, "Not Nick. I know where _he_ is. I sent him there. I was talking about Grissom." Sara felt her shoulders sag. "You think he'd agree to come give us a hand?"

Sara fixed Russell with a narrowed stare which he returned unwaveringly. "How do you know he's back?"

"Well, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is," she said in an uneasy chuckle, wondering how he knew considering that until she had got the call to tell her he was waiting at McCarran to be picked up _she_ hadn't.

"You said it yourself," he went on earnestly, "we're going to need to do this to the letter if we want an accurate TOD."

Sara opened her mouth to object, argue that she was competent enough to see this through, but instead exhaled a long weary breath. Who was she kidding? Looking at the task in hand she felt confident that she could document and collect the insects in their various stages of development, record times and ambient temperatures so as to recreate the exact climatic conditions back at the lab.

And then what?

Whatever insect collection she'd done in the past had been under supervision and she knew from experience how getting one variable wrong could skew the overall results, the Kay Shelton case of so long ago a case in point. Getting an accurate time of death was key, as crucial to the investigation as determining cause of death and she owed it to Melinda Carver and her little boy to find out what had happened and solve the case.

"So what are you waiting for?" Russell coaxed softly. "I'm sure you can use your powers of persuasion if he drags his feet."

The corner of her mouth turned up in a wry smile she hoped hid her sadness. If she had any powers of persuasion over him he would be living in Vegas full-time and not using the place as a stopover between trips. She opted for honesty. "I'm not sure how long he's going to be here for this time."

Russell gave a sigh. "He can get us started. Nick can take over the rearing when he gets back. Hey, Sara, I don't mind making the call if it's going to cause a rift between you two, but we need him on board for this one. I've a feeling about this case, and we're going to need all the evidence we can get to figure it out."

She forced a smile. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll make the call. It'll be strange working together again after all this time, that's all."

"Might be fun, you never know." Russell rubbed at his nose with the back of his gloved hand, then straightened up with a wince, packed up his kit and made for the door. He was bailing out on her. "In the meantime, I'm going to get some air, talk to Brass, see what he's got, call Morgan for backup, and then make a start on the outside."

Sara's lips twitched with a knowing smile. "Call the coroner's office too," she told him, "Tell them there's no rush. This is going to take a while, regardless of whether Grissom agrees to come or not."

Russell nodded, then paused, watching her expectantly, and her smile widening Sara gave a disparaging shake of the head.

"I'll make the call and use _all _of my powers of persuasion, all right?" she almost laughed.

"All right." Giving her a cheerful wave, he mouthed "Cheerio," and slid the door open a crack before slipping out and blowing out a very long breath.


	3. Chapter 3

Daylight was beginning to fade and as she worked Sara worried Grissom wouldn't be coming. She'd called the house phone first, then his cell, leaving messages on both when she didn't get a reply. At first she'd thought he might be catching up on sleep but there was a phone on the bedside table, its ring set to the highest setting which he couldn't have failed to hear. What if he was dodging her calls as she had his earlier?

"No," she said out loud, "He wouldn't do that." Besides, hadn't he already called to apologize for his insensitivity?

With a put-upon sigh she used her forceps to prise yet another maggot off the body, dropped it into a clean vial which she'd already carefully labelled before returning to the body and starting over. She'd been hard at work for almost an hour and a half when a shadow fell across the body and she felt his stare on her through the glass. She looked up slowly, meeting his soft gaze and returning his even softer smile. Her heart beat a little faster for seeing him and she chastised herself for ever thinking he wouldn't come.

His hair needed cutting. He'd gotten changed into old jeans and a navy tee-shirt, the bulky forensic entomology backpack the lab now used cutting deep into his shoulder. He wore a pair of old sneakers she hadn't seen on him for a very long time. He looked tanned and youthful from his three weeks in Australia, but tired despite the crinkling in the corner of his eyes. Hours of travelling, she thought with a pang of sadness, and little sleep, taking their toll on him.

Russell spoke and his eyes still on her Grissom nodded his head before refocusing his gaze on the supervisor, and she wondered what kind of interaction the two men would have with each other. They had never met, and yet already knew a lot about the other from third parties. Sara was often struck by the similitudes in their character as regards CSI, and yet they were intrinsically different; one an expert at reading people, the other…not so much.

Russell stuck his hand out, and she refocused. "Welcome on board, Dr Grissom," she watched his lips say.

Shaking the proffered hand warmly, Grissom replied something that made Russell laugh but his face was turned away from her and Sara couldn't read what he said. Giving a start Russell spoke again, then pulled his cell out of his pocket before touching Grissom's shoulder in apology and walking away. Grissom turned back toward her, his shoulder lifting in a small shrug that said so little, yet told her so much. He eased the backpack off his shoulder, slid the glass door open a crack, quickly slipping in before closing the door after him.

"Hey," he said, turning and holding her gaze a little diffidently.

Her answering smile was soft. Immediately he reached for the bottle of water strapped to the backpack's front bungee netting, which after popping the lid he held out to her. A wide grin of disbelief broke across her face. How could someone be so thoughtless one minute and then be this…loving and considerate?

Peeling off her latex gloves as she straightened up she almost snatched the bottle from his grasp before gratefully bringing it to her lips, closing her eyes as she took big gulps. "Thanks," she said, passing the bottle back to him, "I needed that."

"I know," he smiled, and put the bottle away.

Noticing the slight twitching of his nose she crouched back down, rummaging in her kit for her trusted Vaseline pot. Looking up she tossed it at him and he caught it with a frown. Understanding suddenly dawned and he burst out in a quiet chuckle. "No thanks," he said, tossing the pot back in her kit. "I don't want to dull my sense of smell."

Sara failed to repress an amused smile at his smugness. "You got my message," was all she said, aiming for a light tone.

His smile faded. "I'm sorry I didn't pick up; I was out with Hank and left my cell behind." He patted the backpack at his feet and waggled his brow at her, his smile returning. "Went to the lab; got the flytrap, as requested."

Sara gave a small giggle. "Thank you," she said, holding his gaze meaningfully so he understood she was thanking him not only for agreeing to help but also for not bringing up their earlier disagreement.

He gave a nod of acknowledgement, then putting an end to the pleasantries flicked his gaze up to the rest of the room, and she watched as he scanned slow eyes over the crime scene, over the evidence she'd already collected and finally over the body. His expression darkened. He gave a wince and craned his neck to take a closer look at the wound, his face pursing in slight bafflement.

"COD's still indeterminate," Sara said, reaching into her kit for a fresh pair of gloves for him, "The shape of the wound's kind of…fuzzy, and I haven't been able to touch it yet."

She held out the gloves to him, and he took them without looking at her, simply acknowledging her words with a nod of the head. "Coroner hasn't been?" he asked, eyes still on the body as he snapped the gloves on.

"Not yet." She checked her watch. "They're running behind, but I knew the insect collection would take a long time so I told them there was no rush."

After another silent nod Grissom reached for the pair of forceps that Sara had been using and lightly scraped at the wound, before lifting the scraping to his eye line and examining it. Unease filled her. What if she'd made a mistake? What if she'd missed something probative? What if he felt her work wasn't up to par – his par?

"DB filled you in?" she asked, needing to fill the silence.

Eyes flicking back to her Grissom gave a nod.

"Did…did he mention whether Brass got a hold of the husband?" Her shoulder lifted anxiously. "I mean, is Timothy with him?"

He frowned. "The little boy?"

Sara nodded once, and Grissom shook his head in reply to her original question. "I―_we_ think he could have been here when..." she let her words drift with another shrug.

Grissom paused and turned toward her. His eyes were soft and a little sad as he watched her, and she knew there was something he wasn't telling her. Her gaze turned pleading and he let out a long breath. "Russell found a boy's shoe partially hidden in one of the shrubs near the patio. I mean, out of context it doesn't mean much." Swallowing Sara nodded and Grissom reached his hand to her face, curling his fingers back before making contact when he realised he was wearing gloves. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Sara forced a smile before turning away to hide her pain under the pretence of pulling out a fresh pair of gloves from her kit.

"You did good work here, Sara," he said.

She felt herself smile at the compliment. "I had a good teacher." The words were spoken before she could censor them. She wasn't trying to score brownie points; she just meant them plain and simple. Their eyes met and they shared a smile. "Besides," she added, her smile widening teasingly, "I wasn't sure you'd show."

She regretted her words as soon as they left her lips. His expression hardened and he averted his gaze. She thought about apologising, but what for? Speaking the truth? Wordlessly he reached over to the backpack and unzipped it before taking out a few vials and a bottle of ethyl acetate and returning his attention to the body.

Sara sighed. "I've taken multiple shots of the victim, the wound and insect activity," she said, steering them back to the task in hand, "and recorded ambient and body temperature at regular intervals since I got here three hours ago." Unconsciously she rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension before opening her hand out toward the vials neatly lined up, ready for identification.

"Some of these maggots are big enough to be in their third instar, I think. I can't see any signs that any of them have begun to pupate, but the tiled flooring isn't great for that." Turning back to him she couldn't fail to notice the look of approval on his face, and yet her gaze sought his, silently seeking confirmation.

"You're right," he said, his tone on the curt side, "on all counts." He opened the bottle of ethyl acetate and poured a little in each of the vials he'd prepared. "When we're done with the body I'll check for places a little further afield where they could have wandered off to for pupation. But I don't think they've quite reached that stage." He paused suddenly, fixing her with a probing stare. "So, can you maybe begin to estimate TOD from all you've observed?"

Sara's face took on a thoughtful expression. "Ballpark figure?"

He chuckled. "For now."

"Well, under normal conditions," she said, "We'd be looking at TOD ten to twelve days ago, but here, I'd say as early as four to five days?"

His lips pursed approvingly. "We'll have to verify that of course, but that'd be my…ballpark figure too."

Her pride at getting it right was marred by her sadness for the victim. "No one had seen her for days, Gil, _seven_ days." Her voice was low and despondent and Grissom sighed, his face mirroring her pain. "She'd been missing all that time and no one cared enough to check on her."

"We don't know that."

"Her work_ colleagues_, Gil, they're the ones who reported her missing."

Sara wasn't sure whether she had intended for him to draw a parallel with their own situation but he obviously did, the look of hurt that crossed his face and the long inhale and exhale of breath speaking volume.

"I call every other day I'm away, Sara," he said, his voice quiet despite the slight edge. He left everything else unsaid, keeping his eyes steadfast on what he was doing, and again Sara didn't pursue the subject. Whatever issues they had at home stayed at home, they had agreed on that a very long time ago.

Sara moved to her kit and pulled out the ALS and safety goggles, some evidence bags as well as her brush and fingerprint lifting equipment and set about processing the rest of the room while he finished with the insect collection. Few words were spoken, but there was no doubt that despite the tension between them they were on the same page, working with the same care, ease of understanding and diligence they'd always shared. An hour later she saw him move to the doors before carefully sliding and folding them back part of the way, letting in some much needed air. Sara closed her eyes, welcoming the cool evening breeze with a relieved breath.

"You got all the flies?" she asked, a smile in her voice.

"As many as I was willing to get anyway," he replied in a scoff.

"Thank you," she said, her smile widening when he turned toward her.

He gave her a firm nod, and after checking she'd already processed the area reached to flip the light switch on. "Any time, you know that."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I'll…get started on the outside of the door."

She was lifting the last one of the fingerprints she'd found on the outside glass near the handle when she caught sight of Russell standing by the pool, looking out toward the desert contemplatively. She looked at Grissom engrossed in some calculations at the counter, then back at Russell and put her stuff down.

"Hey," she called in a light tone, walking over to him, "No slacking."

Startling, Russell turned and let out a warm laugh. "I'm not…slacking. I was just…" he let his words trail off with a shrug. "So, how are you two getting along in there? You seemed very cosy when I walked past."

"Fine," she laughed.

His smile was genuinely pleased. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm sorry about before. I―I guess it's been a while and…"

"Hey, Sara, no need to explain." Both his hands lifted by his sides in surrender. "I get it. I couldn't stand to have to work with my spouse."

"I actually enjoy working with mine," she almost said, "And I miss it." Instead she asked, "What happened to Morgan?"

"Last I heard she was back at the lab working the Applegate case."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "You always knew he'd come, didn't you?" she asked with disbelief.

"Of course," Russell laughed. "Didn't you?"

Sara opened her mouth to reply, but then shut it again, preferring to change tack. "Brass located the father yet?"

"Yeah. He was in Carson City on some dermatology seminar, been there since Monday. He's a dermatologist in some private practice in downtown Vegas."

Sara's brow creased as she did some simple math. "His alibi checked out?"

"Why? Is he a suspect?"

"Everyone is a suspect."

Russell gave a wry smile. "Yeah, his alibi checked out." He paused, watched her with a narrowed gaze. "Anyway, he's driving back right now, and before you ask, he's got no idea where the boy could be. Brass said he won't issue an Amber alert until the father gets here and we're sure kidnapping's what we're dealing with. He's compiling the usual list of registered paedophiles too, and as far as we know no ransom demands have been made."

"I can't get my head round this case," Sara said in a sigh.

"Neither can I."

"I got a load of prints, mostly partials and smudges, some Timothy's I can tell because of the size, but nothing else," she said.

"It's early days yet."

She nodded, then jerked her head over her shoulder toward the house. "Looked inside yet?"

He gave a nod. "Just as Brass said. The kitchen's a mess, but everywhere else is all right. Not spotless, lived in, you know? But with kids what do you expect? I got some things with the mother's DNA, to compare it to." Sara gave another musing nod and Russell lifted his hand to her shoulder, patting it comfortingly. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Sara."

He paused, dropping his hand from her shoulder. "You know, I was thinking, just then, and maybe it's not Melinda Carver's body lying there. Maybe she took Timothy on a vacation, you know, spur of the moment thing without telling the husband, and it's the housemaid we got here. A house this size, there's got to be a maid."

"Without telling her work first?" she countered, "I don't think so." Her gaze drifted to the desert beyond. "He could be anywhere by now."

Russell's hand found its way to her shoulder again, reassuring, and nodding Sara turned, headed back to the pool house, her pace slowing a fraction as she realised Grissom had been watching.

"You just disappeared on me," he said when she got level with him, looking and sounding a little disconcerted, and she couldn't repress a small smile at how the tables had turned.

Movement in one of the small rooftop windows on the main house caught her attention. Her smile vanished, her gaze narrowing as she zoomed in on the area in question.

"What's up?" Grissom asked and she could hear puzzlement in his voice.

"I thought I saw something," she said, eyes steadfast on the window.

She felt Grissom shift by her side as he turned toward where she was staring. "I don't see anything."

Sara blinked her eyes a few times to clear away the tiredness, but all she could see reflected in the windows was the fading dusk light.

"You looked tired," Grissom said, touching her cheek, gently, with the back of his hand.

Drawn, she leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, only to pull away on remembering they were at a crime scene. Her eyes reopened. "I am tired," she said with a half-smile of realisation, and brushed past him back into the pool house to pack up her kit and gather her evidence.

Her work there was done.


	4. Chapter 4

Sara's call had come as a shock – especially after the angry way she'd left for work – but Grissom had gotten changed and jumped into his car, headed straight to the crime lab for more supplies, without a moment's hesitation. As he drove he kept replaying her message in his head, the slight hesitancy and weariness in her voice making him sad. She hadn't been sure about making the call, and he wondered if it was because of their earlier disagreement or because she feared working alongside him again.

Four and half years was a long time, and there was bound to be some awkwardness at first. For one he wasn't boss anymore, she would be. Would she feel undermined by his presence? Would he be treading on her toes? And what if he had to challenge her work and judgement?

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. For as soon as he saw her bent over the body, forceps in one hand and a vial in the other, he'd felt a surge of love and excitement, of exhilaration even at the prospect of working with her again, and he knew they would be fine. There had been some awkwardness at first, but they'd soon been on the same page, falling into their old, comfortable working routine. And it felt good, and he realised he had missed it.

Grissom drew his mind back to the present, looking up from his vials, finding Sara crouched by the blood pool, an evidence marker in hand, staring straight in front of her into nothingness. She too had been lost in thoughts. She looked troubled, the sad downward curve of her lips and dullness in her eyes tugging at his heart. Was the peculiarity of the case the cause of her sadness, or was he?

He called her name gently first so as not to startle her, and then a second time louder when she gave no response. Sara jumped, giving her head a shake before refocusing a bland smile on him.

"Sorry?"

He stared and smiled at her with all the love and tenderness he possessed. "You okay?"

Her smile widened, but did nothing to hide her underlying melancholy. "Sure."

"You were miles away."

"I was just…" she shook her head again, flashed him another weak smile, "doesn't matter. What were you saying?"

Grissom's eyes flicked down to the victim and then back to her. "I was just thinking…I―I've missed this."

She gave a low chuckle, almost a scoff. "You work with bugs all the time."

"No, I mean, working with you like this. I'd forgotten what it was like; how well we work together." His shoulder lifted a little self-consciously. "I've…missed it."

Her lips pinched, eyes flickering away from him before casting downward as though she was trying to hide her pain, and he realised he'd said the wrong thing to her again. His gaze became doleful, and he gave a despondent sigh.

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," he tried again, "For upsetting you. I didn't mean to."

She looked up briefly and gave him a wry smile and a nod. She put away the evidence marker, then brought her gaze back up, and he saw resolve in those brown eyes, resolve and fire. "It's just…you got to see it from my point of you, Gil. I wasn't expecting you for another week, which I'd booked off especially so we could have some time together. Some _proper_ time together."

"I didn't know," he defended weakly.

"Then you show up and―"

"I wanted to surprise you."

"And you did, and it was nice, but maybe next time, give it a few days before you burst my bubble, all right? Telling me you're off again, even before we're home from the airport…" Her temper was rising again, and she clamped her mouth shut.

His face twisted in contrition. "I'm sorry."

She took a breath and nodded, then rubbed at the weariness in her eyes, shut her field kit and stood up. "Let's not do this now, please," she said. "There's too much going on in my head at the moment without adding…" she made a quick back and forth motion with her hand between them, "_this_ to it."

"Okay," he said in a sigh, then paused, watched her closely. "Talk me through it, will you?"

"Through what?" Her tone was still a little curt.

"What's truly bothering you," he said softly.

Her shoulder lifted, her gaze drifting to the body. "What is there to talk through? We don't even know a crime's been committed." She met his eye, gave a sigh. "Where is he, Gil?"

Instinctively he knew she meant the little boy, but sadly he had no words to appease her.

Her shoulder rose again. "Brass caught up with the father. He was away on a conference; says he has no idea where his son is."

So, that was what Russell was telling her earlier when he'd had his hand on her shoulder, he mused still reeling at the thought that in the span of just a few months the new supervisor had managed what had taken him years to achieve.

"It's night time again," she went on, "and he's…out there, frightened, hurt maybe. And we have nothing. Nothing to lead us to him."

"It's early days yet," he said, wishing he had more to give her than just platitudes.

She straightened up to her full height and he watched as she moved to the counter and began gathering her bagged evidence. "I'm going to head back to the lab," she said, "and book this in."

Grissom stood up, pulling his latex gloves off and carefully stepping around the body to join her side. There he draped his arm across her shoulders, gently pulling her toward him until she turned, resting her forehead on his shoulder, and he wrapped his other arm around her. "You'll catch a break, you'll see," he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You haven't looked everywhere yet."

Sara tensed in his arms, and he felt maybe his display of affection had overstepped the line of appropriate behaviour at a crime scene. After all hadn't he drawn that line himself? He was loosening the hold he had on her, dipping his head to seek her gaze when she lifted a growing smile to him.

"You're right," she said, wrong-footing him completely, "I haven't."

Grissom's eyes narrowed quizzically, but she didn't notice, wordlessly pulling away from his embrace to pick up her field case.

"Where are you going?" he asked as still without a word she walked out of the pool house into the night, and then as he followed her out, "Sara?"

"I'm going to take another look at the house," she called over her shoulder. She stopped dead in her tracks, whipping round toward him. "I know DB's already done it, but…you're right..._I_ haven't looked. You keep an eye on my evidence and wait for David to show." She checked her watch. "He shouldn't be much longer."

His lips twitched with a smile. "Yes, sir," he replied, bringing two fingers to his temple in salute.

"I'll be right back," she said, setting off again up the path, elegantly lit up like a runway.

He flicked his eyes to the darkened house beyond, felt a shiver course through him. "Wait!" he called, causing her to freeze in her movement. She turned, watching with a frown on her face as he quickly covered the distance to her. "I'll come with you."

Her frown deepened. "There's no need, Gil. Besides, you can't leave the evidence unattended."

He glanced back toward the pool house and pulled a face. "I could ask a uniform to do it, or Russell even."

"Gil, what's wrong?"

He shrugged, his shoulders lifting as he glanced at the rooftop windows. "I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

"I'm just going to take a quick look around." Her face softened with a smile. "I don't know what I'm expecting to find, but…" Her grin broadened and she let her words drift off. "Look after my evidence for me, I won't be long."

"Just be careful," he said, his hand lifting to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I always am."

He nodded, and she made to leave but he caught her by the hand, tugging her back around. Their eyes met and he gave her hand a squeeze. "I am sorry, Sara, for spoiling things between us this afternoon. I will call Jake Soames and postpone my talk."

"You can't do that. He's counting on you to be there."

"And you were counting on me to be here."

Sara paused, and after a second nodded her head in reply. Then she tugged her hand free, bringing it up to his face and slowly trailing it down his cheek. His heart almost stopped at the unexpectedness of the touch. "Now's not the time to do this," she said, and then pulling away she gave him that beautiful smile of hers and started to walk backwards toward the house, "We'll talk later, all right?"

He gave her a nod, watching as with a spring in her step she turned around, making her way up the path toward the house, and slowly, almost grudgingly he headed back to the pool house to continue with insect classification until the coroner arrived. He had just stepped inside when he heard muffled apologies followed by friendly laughter – Sara's heart-warming giggle and the softer chuckle of David Phillips. He paused, standing stock still as his ears pricked up in interest.

"I know," he heard Sara say, her words drifting down to him clearly in the night breeze, "I smell." Grissom's lips pinched, stifling his smile.

"Oh, no," David replied apologetically, "That's not why I was…" A pause and Grissom's brow creased as he concentrated on hearing David's next words. "You got something in your hair. It's moving."

"Shit," Sara muttered under her breath. Grissom's lips pinched again and he could well imagine the scene between the two, David looking on as Sara tussled out of her hair whichever creature had burrowed there. "Still there?"

"No, it's gone. I think." There was a pause, and Sara's giggle filled the air again, and he wished at that moment in time that he was David. "So, is it true?" David asked, a giddy edge to his voice.

"Yeah, it's true. Go on," she said, "Go say, "Hi". He's been waiting to see you."

Hearing David's approaching footfalls Grissom crouched down near the victim, facing toward the door, making a show of looking busy.

"I don't believe it!"

Grissom gave a chuckle. "Hello David."

David moved into his eye line, and he looked up. "I didn't believe it when Russell mentioned it, but it _is_ you!"

His smile widened. "I'm just lending a hand."

David put his case down and kneeling down opened it, reaching in for some gloves. "When did you get back?"

"Early afternoon," Grissom replied, motioning with his fingers for a pair for himself.

David paused. "Oh, Sara never said."

Grissom sighed. "She didn't know."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

David nodded that he understood, then passed him a pair of gloves before pulling on his own. "It's good to have you back," he said, and Grissom smiled at the genuine affection in the younger man's voice. David's expression became serious as he walked around the victim, crouching down next to Grissom, getting down to business. Grissom stood back a little and David began his thorough examination of the body.

"Neither Sara nor I have touched the body," Grissom said.

"I know," David said with a half-smile, and then a few moments later as he met Grissom's eye, "Shall we?"

Grissom nodded and together they carefully rolled the body over. Wincing at both the fresh release of smell and state of decay of the victim's face Grissom pulled a few maggots off it and put them away while David studied the wound more closely.

"You finished with insect collection?" David asked.

"Yes." There was a pause, Grissom's fingers twiddling a little restlessly while David did his work. "So," he said, "I hear congratulations are in order."

David's face brightened. His eyes flicked up. "Thank you."

Grissom returned the smile, his shoulder lifting a little hesitantly as he asked, "How far along is she?"

David's gaze lowered to the body again. "Twenty weeks. I can't wait."

Grissom's smile was fond. "You'll make a good father, David."

David's eyes shot up to Grissom's face, shining with a mixture of surprise and pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you," he said, then paused as though wanting to add something but didn't, simply refocusing his gaze and hands on the body. His face registered a look of puzzlement, and he pulled back, raising both hands in the air to make space for Grissom. "Grissom, feel around the wound, will you?"

Grissom's brow rose in surprise. Then he slowly did as asked, his face pursing in uncertainty. "What am I supposed to be feeling for?"

"May I?" David asked placing his hand over Grissom's on the body and moving it to the left when Grissom gave the nod.

Grissom's face lit up suddenly. "I feel it," he marvelled, swapping fingers, lightly pushing each tip into the hole to get a measure of its width. "Round, smooth. No sharp edges. Small, very small, much smaller than the tip of my pinky even."

David's lips pinched, stifling a smile at his terminology. "Bullet hole, maybe?"

"Small calibre, if it is." He paused, frowned, felt his fingers all around the back of the head. "No sign of an exit wound, though, or enough blood spatter to suggest gunshot."

"Could have been long range."

Grissom removed his hands, his gaze slowly lifting toward the dark yard outside. "The position of the body would suggest the shot was fired from this direction," he thought out loud, David's eyes following to where he was pointing.

"I'll get the body back to the morgue as soon as I can, let you know what I find."

Grissom nodded, then a smile of disbelief formed as he realised how quickly he'd slipped back into CSI mode. "Let Sara know," he said, "It's her case." David refocused an enquiring gaze on him. "I'm just…the hired help. Here for the bugs."

"Shot in the face," David mused glumly, his eyes returning to the victim, "what a sad way to go."

But Grissom wasn't listening, his mind already on overdrive. He stood up, pulling off the soiled gloves as he moved toward the doors before slowly unfolding them shut. If indeed their victim had been shot the killer had to have shut these doors after the commission of the crime, which meant that he or she might have left some fingerprints behind as well as a bullet casing somewhere in the grass. He turned toward David who was watching him with a knowing smile on his face and winked.

He couldn't wait to tell Sara.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I would like to thank everyone for persevering with the site and the new log in system and for leaving reviews for the last chapter. It was a pleasure getting so many 'guest' reviews and fun trying to match them to the correct people. And please keep leaving reviews; they are a tremendous source of comfort and encouragement.

* * *

Sara had been into people's houses before, hundreds of times, rifling through their private, often most intimate effects, looking for clues, searching for evidence. It was part of the job, and most of the time she did it rather impassively. Today however, even before she stepped into the house, she knew that it would be different. Cases involving children always got to her, did to all of them, and they always worked extra hard at solving them, but this particular case felt different, _was_ different, and she couldn't explain it. She felt unsettled, ill at ease and troubled.

Night time was almost upon them now, and she waited a moment at the threshold for her eyes to adjust to the darkness inside to switch on her flashlight and let herself into the house. Wary of disturbing potential evidence she swept the beam of her light over the parquet floor in front of her and took a couple of careful steps in, before moving her light up to the rest of the room, taking in the large flat-screen TV on the wall, extensive sound system and cabinets full of CD's and DVD's.

A toy robot stood guard, one arm raised in attack, the other one missing, on the rug in the space between the red leather couch and the glass-topped coffee table. There, a jigsaw puzzle lay in a ramshackle pile, barely started, as well as some loose sheets of paper and crayons next to a vase of wilted gladioli. Putting her kit down, Sara picked up the top sheet in her gloved hand and studied it, a smile forming as she made out a child's bold crayon strokes depicting two sad-looking people standing hand in hand in front of a big house, a grey ball of fur at their feet. Her brow knitted, her smile fading as she read the words _me, mommy and buddy_ in large clumsy writing at the bottom of the picture, the lack of _daddy _conspicuous in its absence.

Brass's words informing them that Timothy's parents were in the middle of a divorce came back to her and with a sigh she put her flashlight down on the table and reached into her kit for an evidence bag before carefully slipping the picture inside it. Next she moved to the adjacent dining area, immediately noticing the stack of post on the table next to an open laptop, her face pursing in surprise that DB hadn't already taken the device for processing. She flashed her light over the post, checking the date on the top envelope, May twelfth she read, last Saturday, six days ago, which fitted in with their provisional time of death.

Quickly she flicked through the envelopes, bank and credit card statements, bills, a couple of junk letters, eventually stopping at a large brown official-looking envelope, the name of a Las Vegas law firm embossed on the top left corner. The flap was torn and Sara turned the envelope over, carefully sliding out its content, unconsciously checking over her shoulder as she did so, as though expecting for someone to suddenly appear and question her on her prying.

As she read, a picture began to form in her mind; that of a sad little boy caught in the middle of his parents' acrimonious divorce and on-going conflict over who should have custody of him, an innocent boy still too young to understand why his little world was being ripped apart and why the two most important people in his life had come to hate each other. Her eyes kept darting all over the page and by the time she finished reading a lump had formed in her throat. She looked up, blinking back tears. Blowing out a deep breath she replaced the documents in the envelope and set the post back down on the table the way she had found it.

The kitchen was exactly how Brass and DB had described it. She swiped her hand over the light switch on the wall, wincing as two bright neon lights flickered on overhead, illuminating a…bomb site. She put her flashlight away in her coveralls pocket and walked to the kitchen island, swiping her finger over some kind of orange dried-up substance and bringing it to her mouth to taste: juice.

She picked up an empty milk carton, out of date by three days, and put it back down, sighing as she took in the dirty surfaces everywhere, discarded plates and glasses and detritus, array of spilled food and drinks, crunching under foot, rotting on counter tops – Potato chips, biscuit packet, cereal boxes, all open, all empty of their contents; a jar of peanut butter, unopened; blackened banana peels and nibbled-down apple cores in various stages of decay; a saucepan on the electric hob with the crusted remnant of baked beans.

Sara's frown deepened, and she sighed. As she moved to check the fridge, she kicked an empty bowl on the floor and almost hoped that Russell was right, that Melinda Carver had gone on an impromptu trip with her son, leaving the maid to clean up the mess. She could almost see it, the maid playing mistress in the empty house, inviting the boyfriend along maybe to use the facilities while the boss was away, the two of them taking a dip in the pool, arguing maybe, and then a fight, a blow to the head…

Sara gave her head a shake, refocusing on the task in hand. Her eyes fell on the photos and drawings held by letter magnets on the fridge doors, and she leaned in close to study one photograph in particular. Instinctively she smiled at the close-up shot of a brown-haired little boy she assumed to be Timothy staring up at the camera with a chocolate-covered face and a gap-toothed smile. Her smile wavered, her lips pinching to stop the quaver, and she closed her eyes at the sudden pang of sadness that shot through her heart.

She was sure that either Russell or Brass had already thought to take a photo of the boy to show potential witnesses or to use if an Amber alert was issued, but slowly she lifted the magnet, removing the picture and slipping it into another evidence bag. The fridge was surprisingly well-stocked and untouched considering the overall state of the kitchen – cheeses, salad stuff and condiment, half-full bottle of white wine, cranberry juice, designer water…Sara froze, her eyes snapping back to the food packaging on the kitchen island as a thought occurred before looking up to the ceiling.

At that moment she heard a noise, a low shuffling sound directly above her head, and she smiled, her heartbeat quickening in excitement. Her training kicked in though and she took her gun out of her kit and with the flashlight in her other hand went in search of the stairs. On the first floor, her light filled the landing illuminating four doors, two shut and two opened a crack. She stopped and tried to visualise the layout of the house, surmising that the two rooms directly in front of her were above the kitchen and living space and looked out onto the backyard, and if Timothy had been hiding there all this time it would explain the noise she had just heard and the movement she had glimpsed earlier.

"Hello," she called softly from the landing, "My name is Sara. Sara Sidle. I work with the…" she paused, replacing 'crime lab' with, "police. I'm here to help you. You're safe now, you can come out."

Sara waited, but heard no sounds.

"It's okay to come out now," she tried again, but to no avail.

With a sigh, she pushed open the door on the right-hand side with her foot, carefully entering with her weapon half-drawn just in case, but as she shone her light, she realised that the bedroom, immaculate, perfunctory and with no personal effects on display, was empty and undisturbed. The guest room, she surmised, swiftly moving on to the next room. There she paused, her eyes fixing on a colourful sign tacked to the middle of the door. _Welcome to Timmy's room_, she read. Her heart tightened in sadness as she wondered what she would find on the other side. The door was shut and gently she lowered the handle, slowly nudging the door open wide so as not to startle its occupant.

Immediately the beam of her light caught a pair of bright green eyes. She heard a high-pitched shriek and faster than she could raise her arms to protect her face the cat had launched at her from the top of the bookshelf near the door. She felt the sting of sharp claws as they dug into her skin and blood trickle down her face. The cat fell to the ground, scurrying past her into the landing, and as she brought shaking fingertips to the cuts on the side of her face her disappointment at finding a cat and not Timothy was crushing, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Russell had probably closed the door on the sleeping cat on his walkthrough earlier, she thought as she let out a long despondent sigh and swept her light over the room. Timmy's bedroom was as big a mess as the kitchen, toys on the floor, single bed unmade, pillow and comforter missing, and smelled of urine. Slowly she went in, crunching small pieces of Lego underfoot, and checked under the bed, behind and inside a play tent and finally inside the small built-in closet, but as she had sadly come to expect the little boy was nowhere to be found.

When she stepped out of the room, the cat was sitting on the landing outside a closed door on the opposite side, as though waiting to be let in. With a frown, Sara opened the door, letting the cat in first before following behind into what she assumed to be the parents'– _mother's_ bedroom. The bedspread was rumpled as though someone had slept on top of it, but the room was otherwise tidy. The cat headed straight to one of two connecting doors and Sara drew her weapon again before opening the door to a pitch black walk-in closet. Weapon still drawn she shone her light in but she didn't see anything out of place, except for the cat which had slipped under a long rail of clothes on the right-hand side, disappearing out of sight.

Sara paused at the door and was considering leaving when she thought better of it. Noiselessly she crouched down, and was checking underneath the clothes rails for the cat with her light when she saw it, the small curled-up-tight and trembling body of a terrified little boy in his make-shift hideout at the back of his mother's closet. He had wrapped himself head to toe in a comforter and she couldn't tell which way he was facing. The cat circled the spot at what she assumed to be the boy's feet a few times before curling itself up .

Overwhelming relief filled her, immediately replaced by dread as she thought of what he must have gone through since his mother's death. Her first instinct was to reach for her radio and call for help but she'd left it downstairs with her kit, her cell too, and leaving the boy alone now that she had found him was simply out of the question. She placed her light on the floor, shining it toward the shoe rack away from Timothy, put her gun down near her feet by the door and lied down on the carpeted floor, slowly inching forward under the clothes until she was at touching distance.

"Hi," she said, keeping her voice soft but cheery despite her anguish, "I've been looking all over for you."

She placed a soft hand on his back under the comforter and patted it warmly. She felt the boy tense at the touch, but she didn't withdraw her hand, simply made the contact lighter. The cat stood up, disappearing inside the gap between the wall and the boy, giving her an idea.

"Thank you for taking me to Timmy," she said, addressing the cat. "Without your help I might never have found him. This is a good hiding place."

When Timothy made no acknowledgement that he had heard her she sighed and glancing toward the open door withdrew her hand, shuffling fully under the clothes so she lay alongside him. She decided on a new approach. "I used to…" she swallowed and cleared the emotion from her throat, trying again a little louder, "I used to hide in my closet too when I was little. It was my most favourite place in the whole world. It was small, so small only I and my doll could fit in, but it was safe and warm and I thought no one could ever find us there."

Lapsing into silence, she blew a breath and, eyes steadfast on the clothes hanging above her, let her mind drift back to long forgotten memories of her childhood. After a moment she spoke again, her voice quiet, soothing and reassuring. "I'd take some food with me, and milk and a flashlight so I could read my book." A thought occurred suddenly and she turned her head toward Timothy. "Hey Buddy, did you look after Timmy all this time?" she asked the cat, still hoping to elicit a reply from the boy, "Are you thirsty? Maybe we could...go downstairs and get you a little milk."

Still no answer and Sara ploughed on, turning onto her side so she lay directly behind Timothy. "It's okay if you want to stay here," she said, "I don't mind. I get scared too sometimes when I'm alone…so, I'm not going anywhere, all right?"

She stopped talking and closed her eyes, waiting. For what she wasn't sure, but she knew she mustn't rush the boy, that if he had survived all this time he could survive another hour while she gently coaxed him out. And in the long run she knew it would be better for him, less traumatic, if he came out of his own accord rather than pulled out of his shelter by force. After a minute or so she felt Timothy shift position next to her, but she kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep.

Soon she heard shuffling and there was the lightest touch of small warm and sticky fingers over the trickle of blood on her forehead. Despite her surprise, she didn't move, didn't speak, simply gave him time to get used to her and make the next move again. And maybe with hindsight this was the wrong thing to do but at that moment in time some basic instinct kicked in, and she let her heart and emotion dictate her actions. When Timothy finally came out of his cocoon, wrapping small arms around her neck and clutching her to him she grabbed a hold of him and rolled them out from under the hanging clothes into a sitting position on the carpet.

He didn't speak, didn't cry, didn't even seem to mind the fact that she smelled so horribly. He never once tried to make eye contact with her, he just held her to him, arms and legs clinging tight around her, face burrowed in her chest, and all Sara could do was hug him back and speak soft soothing words to him as she stroked his dirty hair and breathed in his pungent scent, just as she imagined a mother would when comforting her child.

_Her_ child, she thought, the full force of her own grief once again hitting her when she least expected it. She felt her breath catch and tears rise from deep within her, tears she would not allow herself to shed, not there and then, and closing her eyes at the searing pain she tightened her grip around Timothy's small form and began to rock them both gently on the spot.

"You're safe," she whispered hoarsely into his hair, "I got you."


	6. Chapter 6

"You met DB?"

Grissom did a slight double take at David's question, pausing half-way through putting the next vial away into the forensic entomology bag. "Russell?" he asked, aiming for a casual tone. He glanced over his shoulder to find David and his assistant transferring the victim into a body bag.

"You know another one?" David's eyes stayed on his work, his tone amused.

One of Grissom's eyebrows lifted. He finished putting the vial away, then turned fully toward David, his mouth twitching with a ready quip he decided to keep to himself. "Very tactile, isn't he?" he asked, feigning indifference.

David's face pursed in consideration. "Not that I'd noticed," he said, eyes still on what he was doing. He told his assistant to bring the gurney in and then looked up at Grissom, a warm smile to his lips. "He appears to have fitted in rather nicely after…huh…you know…" his smile faded, "all the business with Ray."

Grissom gave a nod. "Sara seems to like him," he said, noncommittal, then checked his watch again. Where was she, he wondered? But before he could dwell on it too much, David's assistant was moving the awaiting gurney inside the pool house, and he watched as he and David carefully lifted the body bag onto it.

"We're going to head back now," David said. He finished strapping the top half of the body to the gurney before raising his eyes to Grissom. "Tell Sara I'll let her know as soon as we have something."

Grissom nodded. Then they heard a voice, Russell winding up a phone call as he made his way to them down the path, and David paused, his eyes flicking to the doorway just as Russell appeared and pocketed his cell. David's smile was immediately returned, and DB made his way over to the assistant coroner's side, his hand lifting to his shoulder in a friendly manner. The gesture wasn't lost on Grissom.

"So?" DB asked, eyes flicking between Grissom and David.

David opened his mouth to reply, but Grissom beat him to it. "GSW to the face," he said, his tone a little too glib, even to his own ears, "Small calibre and/or long range, between four to six days ago."

Russell's brow rose, and eyes growing wide with disbelief he burst out laughing. "You're _good_," he exclaimed, eyes moving to David. "He's good."

"Well, I had a little help," Grissom said with a wink at David behind Russell's back.

David's right eyebrow lifted, his lips pinching, badly hiding his smile. He bent down to pack up his case before loading it onto the end of the gurney. "We'll be off now," he said, his amusement clearly heard in his voice, with a nod to his assistant.

Grissom and Russell stepped back, making way for the gurney. "Tell Doc I'll come by and say 'Hello' before I head home," Grissom said.

"Sure thing," David replied as he left.

"So," Russell said, refocusing on him, his tone deadpan, "You're serious about the GSW or you were just…playing to the audience."

Grissom's mouth pursed to the side in slight annoyance at being called out on his earlier glibness. Still, it was deserved. "Only the coroner can tell that for sure," he said, dropping the act, "but that'd be my working theory."

Russell gave a fast, continuous nod, his face pursed approvingly. "That's good enough for me." Sighing, he turned toward the open doors. "Sara got a load of prints off these glass doors," he said, "Maybe we'll be lucky." Russell's eyes fixed on Grissom again and he smiled, and detecting a straight arrow underneath the easy exterior Grissom decided that he liked the new supervisor too. "I processed the yard earlier and needless to say I didn't find any casings."

"Metal detector?" he suggested.

"That's what I was thinking too. But it's going to have to wait until we're sure…" Russell's words trailed off in a sigh, and Grissom watched as the supervisor nodded to himself, as though he'd come to a decision. "Sara's not with you?" he asked suddenly, his face lighting up with a wide, teasing smile. "You lost her already?"

Grissom couldn't help the chuckle of disbelief that escaped his lips. "She went to take a look inside the house." His expression sobered instantly, his face creasing with worry as he thought out loud, "But that was a while back." Checking his watch he stepped out of the pool house into the dark night and craned his neck toward the house, immediately noticing that the interior stood in complete darkness bar one of the downstairs windows.

"You go see what she's found," Russell said, "I'll stay here and look after…_things_ for you." Grissom's head whipped round with surprise, and Russell's shoulder lifted as though it was no big deal, "I got a couple calls to make."

Grissom didn't need to be told twice. With a nod, he set off at a brisk pace up the path, headed toward the lit-up window. The kitchen, he saw when he looked in, a mess and empty, Sara's open field kit abandoned on the floor. His heartbeat quickening with foreboding he tried the door to the right of the kitchen and finding it unlocked stepped in, immediately flicking the lights on to a spacious laundry room.

The first thing he noticed was the foul odour of cat litter, finding the box in a corner of the room next to a carpeted seven-level cat climbing frame, complete with perches, tubes and a hammock, hanging toys and what Grissom guessed was a scratching area. A half-smile tugging at his lips, he gave a little disbelieving shake of his head, and idly wondering if such a device existed for dogs opened the door to the adjoining kitchen.

"Sara?" he called quietly, closing the door after him. Scanning his eyes over the mess all around, he walked over to her field case. "Sara?" he called again, louder this time, sudden anxiety creeping over him as he took in the empty gun holster lying next to her cell and radio, and then almost a shout, "Sara?"

He waited, but when again he heard no reply knew something was very wrong. Picking up her radio he strode over to the open door on the other side of the kitchen into the dining room. It was dark and empty. Fretful eyes lifting to the ceiling above he was about to call for backup when he heard the sound of her voice.

"We're up here," she said in a hoarse whisper. There was an edge to her voice, a trace of distress that sent shivers down his spine. "Upstairs."

_We?_ Grissom thought with puzzlement. Then it dawned on him and he knew she had found the boy, and as he climbed the stairs two at a time he prayed, prayed to God she hadn't been too late.

"Sara?" he called again from the top of the stairs, forcing a gentleness in his voice he hoped disguised his fear.

"In here," she said.

Grissom rushed into the first door on his left, the parents' bedroom, finding it empty, and followed the dim light of Sara's flashlight through to the walk-in closet. There, he froze in the doorway, shaky hand coming up to his mouth as he realised that Sara had indeed found the boy and that she'd been too late. His heart broke at what she must be going through, and he let out an audible gasp, tears forming in his eyes as he fell to his knees behind her.

Sara was sitting cross-legged Indian style on the floor. Head bowed low, she was hugging Timothy's body to her while gently rocking on the spot and mumbling softly in his ear, just as he imagined a mother would when trying to get a young child to sleep. The cat he'd seen evidence of downstairs, a Korat or Russian Blue maybe, lay curled up against her leg. He reached out a hand to her, but curled his fingers back before making contact, unsure whether the touch would be welcomed or not.

Eyes flicking to the ceiling he blew out a slow breath and was about to speak to her, offer to take the boy from her, when he saw him move and Sara's rocking intensified. She shifted him up higher in her arms, and kissed his forehead before whispering in a soft, soothing voice, "It's okay, Timmy. Don't be scared. I'm here. I got you."

Grissom briefly closed his eyes at the wave of relief that washed over him, and let out a long breath, unsure whether he felt more relieved for the boy or for Sara. When he reopened his eyes Sara was watching him over her shoulder. Her lips were pinched tightly together, her beautiful brown eyes mournful and tormented, but she wasn't crying and he took comfort from that. He sighed and, trying to overcome his own pain at seeing her holding someone else's child as she would if it were her own, gave her a small smile, one that conveyed love and understanding and support, and it took all his resolve not to wrap tight arms around her and hug her to him, just as she was doing to the little boy.

He knew to keep his "You okay?" to himself, saw the answer clearly etched on her face, her barely-contained distress sadly evident and always a worry to him. He made a move toward her, but she shook her head, her gaze dropping to the bundle in her arms, and understanding what she was telling him he nodded. He raised the radio he was still holding to her eye line, then pushing back to his feet picked up her weapon off the floor and after checking that it was made safe slipped it in the waistband of his jeans in the small of his back.

"I'll be right back," he said in a whisper, and moved away next door to the master bathroom. There he took a moment to calm his racing heart before calling Russell and explaining in a hushed voice that Sara had found Timothy, safe but clearly traumatised by his ordeal. Russell said he'd call for an ambulance, and then would notify PD. As he spoke, Grissom's eyes briefly lifted to the mirror above the sink before flicking away again at the distressed look he saw reflected back.

Afterwards, he picked up an upturned glass by the washbasin, filled it with water and made his way back to Sara, crouching down behind her. His hand fell on her shoulder. "An ambulance is on its way," he said almost inaudibly, and keeping her eyes on the boy Sara gave a small nod. "Maybe we should try to get him to drink a little," he added a little hesitantly.

Sara glanced round. Smiling she nodded her head at him and then had a word to Timothy's ear. The young boy gave a slow nod in her shoulder, and Grissom passed her the glass of water. As she brought the glass to Timothy's lips Grissom was able to take in for the first time how dirty, weak and tired he looked, but also how gaunt and haunted his face was.

A few minutes later the radio crackled to life, Russell's quiet voice filling the silence. "Sara, honey, the ambulance is here," he said, needlessly.

With a brief glance at him Sara nodded her head, then gently put the boy down and pushed to her feet before lifting him back onto her. Grissom was about to offer to carry Timothy for her but he knew his offer would be met with refusal and instead he watched as Timothy wrapped his little arms around her neck before pressing his face into it.

He stepped back and Sara brushed past him, and he followed her out, his hand instinctively finding its place in the small of her back, silently guiding her out of the room, out of the house and to the awaiting paramedics at the front of the property. By the time they got there Timothy was asleep, his small body limp in Sara's arms. Sara paused and stared down at the boy. His hand moved to her shoulder. "Sara?"

The EMT jumped down from the back of the ambulance, and Grissom recognised Hank Pettigrew. "Sara?" Hank echoed, opening his arms out to take the boy from her, "I'll take good care of him, I promise."

Sara swallowed, and with a glance up grudgingly relinquished the tight hold she had on Timothy, Hank gently prising him off her without waking him. "I'm going to come with you," she said, and the paramedic simply nodded his head, as though knowing all along, and Grissom knew he wouldn't try to stop her. She was already far too invested in the case, but what else could he do than trust her and allow her the space to see this through?

Hank didn't waste any time, swiftly climbing on board the ambulance and carefully lying the boy down onto the stretcher. Grissom's arm lifted, draping around his wife's shoulders comfortingly, and gently he pulled her to him so she knew he was there, that she wasn't alone, that he shared in her pain and understood what she was going through, while they watched Hank begin a thorough examination of Timothy. Feeling something brushing against his leg he looked down at the cat who was watching the inside of the ambulance with the same rapt fascination as Sara.

"It led me to Timmy," she said, her shoulder rising pitifully, adding when he turned a puzzled gaze at her, "The cat, Buddy. Without him I might have never found him."

Grissom gave her a silent nod. The cat made to jump up into the ambulance but Sara bent down in time, scooping him up into her arms and stroking her hand the length of its back.

"I got to go with him, Gil," she said, restless fingers unconsciously moving behind the cat's ears. She turned her head, sad, frightened eyes lifting to his, and shrugged. "I can't leave him on his own."

Grissom stared at her for a moment then with a small smile nodded his head. "Let me have him," he said, indicating the cat with a jerk of the head.

A soft, grateful smile forming Sara held Buddy out to him. "Thank you."

"Just…" his voice trailed off, his shoulder rising hesitantly, "just―" but before he could voice his concern and ask her to be careful Russell had joined their side.

"Brass is notifying the father," the supervisor said. He paused, craned his neck to look inside the ambulance and then looked at Sara. "How is he doing?"

Sara schooled her features into a neutral expression. "He's…terrified," she said, "and traumatised. Hasn't spoken a word yet, or cried."

"He's safe," Russell said with a nod, "and in good hands." His mouth opened then shut, as his shoulder lifted apologetically. "I never saw him, Sara. Never heard a peep out of him or the cat all the time I was there. Otherwise I would have―" He shrugged again, his hand lifting to her shoulder as he asked, "And how are you doing?"

"I'm fine." Sara's confident tone and brief smile betrayed none of her inner turmoil, and Grissom wondered whether Russell had already figured out that it meant the exact opposite. If he had, he didn't let on. "I'm going to go with him," she went on, her eyes refocusing on the ambulance, "You okay to take the evidence back to the lab for me?"

"Sure." Russell's eyes flitted to Grissom, probing, and Grissom shook his head that, no, he hadn't told her about Melinda Carver being shot, if indeed they were dealing with the mother, which looked more and more likely, and that he didn't think Sara needed to be told until they got confirmation. Eyes flicking back to Sara still watching the ambulance, Russell gave a nod of understanding.

"Sara?" Hank called from the ambulance. "We're ready to go."

With a soft parting look and smile at Grissom Sara climbed up into the ambulance, and just before the doors shut he saw her take a seat and reach for Timothy's hand. The lump that formed in his throat was hard to swallow.

"You think she's going to be all right?" Russell asked in a soft voice, reaching out to tickle the cat's whiskers.

"I don't know," he replied, eyes steadfast on the disappearing ambulance, adding in a despondent sigh, "I hope so." His gaze lowered and he repositioned the sleeping cat in his arms.

Russell shifted beside him. "You know she's going to have to see this one through, right?"

Grissom's head whipped up in surprise at the fact that Russell should know Sara so well. He nodded. "You don't mind?"

"No, not at all." Russell indicated with his hand that they should head back to the backyard, and they set off. "Someone needs to be with the boy until his father gets there – might as well be Sara since she was the one who found him. Besides, he might open up to her on what he knows, if he knows anything."

"I'll pick up her slack."

"Don't you worry about that," DB said, his hand finding its way to Grissom's shoulder and patting it warmly. "She was done here anyway. I'll take her evidence back with mine, log it in and by the time I've done that it'll be daylight again."

Grissom nodded again, grateful, and stopped in his tracks by the back door. Russell followed suit. "I saw a pet carrier in there, earlier. I'm going to take the cat back to the lab if you don't mind, until we can return it to the father."

Russell pursed his lips approvingly. "Saves me doing it."

Grissom paused. His eyes lowered to the cat, hesitating, then climbed back to Russell's face. "I'll give you a hand tomorrow if you want…with looking for the bullet casing."

Russell's face lit up with a grin. "Thank you. But I'd rather you concentrated on this timeline of yours, help us figure out if the father's clean." He paused and quickly looked him up and down. He pushed his glasses back, his brow rising in enquiry. "So, have you missed it?"

A half-smile formed at the question's obvious undertone, and he found that he didn't even mind the new supervisor's forthright approach. "Yeah, I have missed it," he replied solemnly, "a lot."


	7. Chapter 7

The screwed-to-the-floor plastic chairs of the ER waiting-room were hard and uncomfortable. Voices came and went all around her, some loud and shouting, some tearful, scared and pleading while their owners cast funny looks at her, their noses turning up at the foul smell. In the fifteen minutes she'd been sitting there Sara hadn't noticed any of it. Her gaze was fixed to the nurses' station, unblinking, unseeing, as waiting she replayed the events of the last five hours or so in her head.

The main ER doors slid open again and with it a new rush of air. Her eyelids drifted shut as she took in a deep breath, unconsciously welcoming the cooler night breeze gently making its way to her. Vaguely, she was aware of someone sitting down on the chair beside her.

"Remember when we met?" a quiet, smiley voice said after a moment.

Sara startled, then giving her head a shake refocused tired, blurry eyes onto the nurses' station. Finally registering who the voice belonged to, she turned toward it, finding Hank sat there, a soft, slightly wistful smile on his lips as he watched her. Her gaze narrowed, bemused.

"Doesn't bother me like it used to," he said, his shoulder lifting sheepishly, "Would go as far as to say I positively like it."

It took a moment for her to cotton on to what he was on about but when she did, she couldn't help the small smile that cracked her lips. Despite him pressing his lips tightly together, the boyish smile that she had once found so charming broke through, and she lowered her eyes to her coveralls, seeing his teasing for what it was, a clumsy attempt at cheering her up.

"There, that gorgeous smile of yours," he added, causing said smile to disappear instantly.

Hank had always been a smooth talker, and it was almost heart-warming to know he hadn't changed. Their paths had crossed a few times in the last nine years, but they'd never exchanged more than a polite nod or brief pleasantries. She had heard that he and Elaine had got married soon after their breakup and now she wondered if they still were, or whether Elaine had seen him for the lying, conniving, two-timing rat he was.

While they had dated, the young paramedic had filled an ache, a void, a desperate need – both physical and emotional – for human comfort and a man's touch. He had been fun to be with, the _diversion_ she'd so badly needed, a no-strings-attached relationship that had still obviously meant more to her than to him. And yet, despite the fact that she hadn't been in love with him, that her heart was Grissom's even then, she couldn't deny that his cheating and the way she had found out about it had hurt deeply and left its mark.

"Don't," she said, her tone cold and final, refocusing her eyes to the nurses' station. And then after a beat, "Haven't you got some place else to be?"

"I'm on a break," he said, his tone losing all trace of levity. He shifted down on the seat, crossing his legs at the ankles, making himself comfortable. Sara was letting out an inward sigh when she heard the tell-tale unwrapping of a snack bar. Her stomach made a gurgling sound she hoped he didn't hear. "What happened to the boy's parents?" he asked, chewing.

"Father's on the way," she replied automatically, eyes flicking over to him. He held out his half-eaten cereal bar to her, and she shook her head in reply. "Mother's most probably on the coroner's slab."

Hank flinched at her turn of phrase. He pulled a face, his chewing slowing right down as he stared at his snack.

Sara turned her head away, her gaze sliding back to the main bowels of the ER. "You don't have to wait," she said, "I don't need you to keep me company."

Hank didn't answer, but didn't leave either, and Sara lapsed into silence with a resigned sigh, her eyes once more finding the nurses' station as her thoughts returned to Timothy. What was taking so long, she wondered? The nurse had promised to come and get her as soon as the doctor had finished examining the little boy and yet again she wished she'd insisted a bit more and refused to leave his side.

"The wound in his hand," she said after a moment, turning toward Hank, "what did it look like to you?"

Hank's eyes snapped open, and he pursed his mouth, considering her words. "A burn mark," he settled for. "I've seen one just like that before," he added in a chuckle, "except it wasn't infected." Sara's eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and he gave another chuckle, his shoulder lifting as he explained, "My daughter, when she _borrowed_ Elaine's curling iron to curl her hair."

Sara swallowed, her gaze averting to hide her sadness at the mention of Elaine and a daughter.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, his tone contrite, "that was crass of me."

Sara looked up and forced a smile. "It's okay. And how is…_Elaine_?" she asked her curiosity piqued.

"She's good. Expecting number three," he said in a soft chuckle, and she cursed herself for asking. "We were trying for a boy, but…with our luck…it'll be another girl."

And there it was again, that hard punch in the stomach when she least expected it. A boy, a girl, what did it matter as long as it was healthy? Sara felt winded again, gasping for air, and she looked down to the clasped hands in her lap to hide her distress.

"What about you?" Hank went on, unaware. "You're married, right?"

Sara's eyes narrowed and when she brought them up she saw he was staring at her hands. He looked up and smiled. "Yeah, I'm married," she said, her eyes dropping back down to her lap.

"Grissom?"

Her eyes shot up with surprise, and she nodded.

His smile widened slightly. "I'm happy for you." He sounded it too, and Sara felt herself relax a little, his candour dissipating some of her anguish.

"How did you know?" she asked after a beat.

His shoulder lifted. "I saw you two interact at the crime scene, remember? The way he was with you, the concern in his eyes, the…matching ring on his finger?" A smile broke through, and he shrugged again. "Can't say I'm surprised. He was always there, wasn't he?"

Hank's comment gave Sara pause, but before she could think of the words to respond the nurse that had whisked Timothy away earlier walked up to the nurses' station and she jumped to her feet, striding over through the open double doors. "How's Timmy?" she asked without preamble, the trembling in her voice betraying her worry.

The nurse's eyes flicked over to Sara and then Hank coming up behind her. "He's doing okay." A wistful smile formed on her tired face. "Poor kid looks like he could do with all the sleep in the world and a lot of TLC."

"He's awake?" Sara asked, surprised.

The nurse gave her head a shake, refocusing. Her smile faded. "No, he's not. We're giving him IV fluids, but nothing else at the moment, not until the doctor has been to see him."

Sara gave a long sigh. "How long is that going to take?"

"Your guess is as good as mine but it's Friday night and you can see how busy it is." The nurse gave Sara a warm smile. "For what it's worth he's going to be fine – physically anyway."

Sara's nod was on the forlorn side, for she knew first hand that emotionally he would be a wreck and that a trauma like that would shape the rest of his life, just as her father's death had shaped hers. "Can I see him?"

The nurse pondered Sara's query for a few seconds before nodding her reply. "Just for a minute," she said.

"Hank?" called a male voice from behind them. "We got to go. Crash on the Parkway."

Sara turned to look at Hank who looking back over his shoulder nodded his head before refocusing on her. His hand moved to her shoulder, light, friendly, and Sara didn't shy away from the touch. "You going to be okay?"

"Hank?"

Sara gave him a quick nod in reply, watching as with a parting smile he trotted out of the ER and once again out of her life.

"Curtain two," the nurse told Sara, "Down the corridor on the left-hand side."

Sara turned back. "Thank you," she said, already headed there.

When she pulled the curtain back her insides were already twisted in a tight knot. She swallowed and stared motionlessly at Timothy's small, pale form in the big hospital bed. Electrodes hooking him up to a cardiac monitor rose and fell on his chest as he breathed while an IV line dripped saline into his skinny arm. Slowly, almost tentatively she walked up to the bed and picked up his left hand that lay on his stomach, the one not bandaged. It felt warm and clean. Timothy flinched in his sleep, unconsciously tugging his hand weakly out of Sara's with a whimper, but Sara kept a gentle hold of it.

"It's okay," she said, using the same tone of voice she'd used before with him, "it's me, Sara," and the boy relaxed again.

With a trained eye she took in the outlines of tiny ribs stretching the skin on his torso. Reassured to see that the burn mark in the palm of his right hand was his only outward wound she pulled a nearby stool over and sat down on it. Still holding his hand she used her other hand to stroke his sticky brow while doing her best to manage her own turmoil of emotion raging inside her. After a while Timothy stirred and whimpered again. His eyes fluttered open, immediately locking on her, and her face lit up with a smile.

"Hey," she said, "It's me Sara. You remember me?"

Timothy's eyes narrowed, then flicked up to a point beyond her before darting all over the place, growing wider and wider with fear as he took in his surroundings and realised where he was.

"It's okay," she soothed. "Don't be scared. You're safe here too."

Before she could begin to form words in her mind to best ask him about what had happened the curtain was pulled back sharply, revealing a young male doctor, looking tired and harried and carrying a medical chart. The boy's eyes shot to him, once again wide and fearful. He started, seemingly recoiling in the bed. Sara pushed to her feet but didn't let go of his hand.

"It's okay," Sara told Timothy, "don't be scared. Doctor…"

"Pendleton," the doctor said, looking at Sara from head to toe, his nose twitching with distaste.

She turned back to Timothy. "Doctor Pendleton's here to help you too. Just like me."

"You're his mother?" he asked, eyes narrow and distrustful.

Sara swallowed her discomfort. "No. I'm…Sara Sidle from the crime lab. I―I found him. I left my ID at the…crime scene," she said the last words in a whisper and a flicker of her eyes toward Timothy. "His father is coming all the way over from Carson City so we don't know how much longer he'll be."

When Brass arrived soon afterwards he found her, head in hand, leaning against the nurses' station. Timothy had drifted back to sleep, and one of the care assistants was giving him a sponge bath before he was due to be moved onto the paediatric ward. Brass still wore the same rumpled clothes and he looked as she felt, world-weary and in need of some strong coffee.

"How is he?" were his greeting words.

She couldn't tell if it was the caring tone in his voice or her overwhelming tiredness that brought tears to her eyes, but before she knew it they were streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," she said in a murmur, the back of both hands coming up to swipe at them.

His face gentled and he took her elbow, leading her away from the hustle and bustle to a quieter corner from where they could still keep an eye on the nurses' station. They sat down on a couple of plastic chairs, and Brass shoved the black sports bag he was carrying under his chair. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort her, simply waited for her to compose herself, and she was grateful for that

"He's going to be fine," she replied to his original question when she was calmer, "Physically at least. Emotionally…" her words trailed off with a shrug. "He woke up briefly when the doctor came to examine him, but he is so scared, Jim, so scared. He was barely responsive."

Brass spread his legs, resting his forearms on his thighs, his hands meeting in the gap in the middle. "Did he…say anything?" he asked, turning his head toward her. "Tell you what happened?"

"No," she said in a small voice. "He never uttered a word, to me or to answer the doctor's questions, never asked for his mother, or his father for that matter." Her shoulder lifted pitifully. "They're waiting on a psych consult as we speak, but that won't be till morning."

Brass gave a nod. "What I don't get," he said, "is why he never called for help, made his presence known. A child his age should be capable of calling 911. He had to have heard the front door bell when the officers first came round, without mentioning all the commotion afterwards."

"Put himself in his shoes," she said, keeping her voice low, "All alone all this time, with his dead mother in the pool house? He must have been petrified. I know I would have been."

"You think he saw her?"

Sara shrugged. "Why else react the way he has―is doing?"

Brass sighed, nodding. "His father should be here in a couple of hours." His eyes flicked away from her, scanning the rest of the hall. "You spoke to Russell?"

"What, since I got here?"

His eyes on a drunk talking to himself a few feet away from them, Brass gave a nod.

"No." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"

Brass's gaze refocused on her. "No reason."

"What do you know about the father?" she asked, a little guardedly.

The captain's face pursed as he considered her question. "Geoffrey Carver, thirty-eight, originally from Phoenix, Arizona. Moved to Vegas ten years ago to set up his dermatology practice. More money to be made here, he figured, and he was right. He and Melinda got married back in 2004, which is when they bought the house, and Timothy came along soon after. Record's clean, not even stopped for a traffic violation."

"Anything on Melinda?"

"Vegas born and raised. Only child, parents both deceased." He shrugged. "They split up six months ago, not on the best of terms, and from what I gather from the work colleague I spoke to he stood to lose more than she did."

"Timothy," she stated, and to his nod gave a sigh. "Motive?"

Brass's brow rose. He didn't reply straightaway, as though he was choosing his words carefully, and Sara had the distinct impression he was keeping something back from her. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said, before she could question him. "Remember we've still got to formally ID the body as that of Melinda's. What is sure is that Timothy was the apple of both his parents' eyes." He paused, his gaze holding hers affectionately, and he smiled, his arm lifting from his lap to drape across her shoulders. His eyes flicked down to her chest. "You want to go freshen up while I get us some coffee?"

A grudging smile broke across Sara's face. "You trying to tell me I smell?"

Brass's returning grin was wide and tender. "I wouldn't dream of it." He reached for the sports bag under his seat, lifting it onto her lap and it was only then that she realised it was hers.

She turned a puzzled gaze on him. "You picked the lock to my locker?" she asked in a giggle.

"No," he denied vehemently, feigning offence at the mere suggestion. His shoulder rose, small and contrite, as his gaze flicked downward in mock-meekness. "Grissom did. Told me to tell you he didn't snoop." He paused, his eyes lingering on her a little too long, and she dropped her gaze to the bag. "You know he'd be here if he could, right?"

Eyes looking down, Sara gave a nod. Then she opened the bag, finding a Hershey's bar next to her cell and wrapped tightly around it a couple of ten-dollar bills, the small bundle sitting atop the wash bag and spare clothes she normally kept at CSI. Tears rose again, and she cursed this case for making her so emotional.

Brass leaned in toward her, giving her arm a gentle nudge, and she swallowed. "I'll keep guard here," he said softly, "and give you a holler if necessary."


	8. Chapter 8

His hands did the work automatically, painstakingly going through the motions of creating the timeline, but his mind, his heart was with Sara at the hospital. Sara, who was quietly but surely breaking up at the seams, and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. He felt unnerved, his stomach twisted with worry for her and what he knew she was going through.

Sure, the case's apparent similarities with Sara's own childhood trauma were unsettling and had probably brought up to the surface feelings and memories she'd rather have kept buried. She identified with Timothy, recognising in the terrified little boy her twelve-year-old self, and he could understand why she would be protective of him, especially if the father was subsequently found to be involved in his wife's death – directly or not.

But there was more to it than just that. He only needed to close his eyes and see the haunted look in hers as she'd clutched Timothy to her to know her demons weren't far away. He'd seen that look before; first when she'd first told him about her painful past, then as she'd struggled to recover after her kidnapping in the hands of Natalie, and then two years later in Paris. Paris should have been their fresh start, and it had been, for a while anyway, but instead it had almost broken them as a couple. And again she had left – him, it seemed.

He blinked a few times as he attempted to clear the moisture in his gaze, pausing from his work with a sigh when he couldn't. He removed his glasses, his eyes screwing shut at the overwhelming sadness that filled his heart, and brought his hand to his face. Head bowed low, he took a couple of deep breaths before reopening his eyes again and, with a hard swallow flicked them over to his right again, checking his cell, absently noting the time – twelve am – but there were no missed calls, no new messages, text or otherwise.

Concerned she hadn't phoned even after Brass had dropped the bag off he'd called her, once, leaving a brief message when the call got sent to voicemail. A couple more times he'd picked up the device, wanting to call her again, reassure himself that she was fine, but he hadn't, thinking it best to wait and not crowd her. She'd need space and time to cope, and he would give her that.

He gave his eyes a rub and slipping his glasses back on carried on inputting the data Sara had recorded onto the various charts on the laptop. Soon, his neck and shoulders felt sore from too much computer work and he was contemplating taking a coffee break and possibly trying Sara's cell again when he felt a pair of eyes looking over his shoulder.

"How is it going?" Russell asked.

Grissom turned his head and Russell stepped back, giving him space to swivel his chair round. "It's...going."

Russell's eyes moved from the computer screen over to the various insect specimens some living, some dead, all clearly labelled. "Looks…complicated."

Shrugging Grissom pushed his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand. "It isn't really. I mean…the theory behind it is quite straightforward." He glanced at the screen and clicked over to a different page documenting local official weather patterns and temperature changes for the past week. "Replicating the exact conditions in the lab to establish exact PMI is a little trickier."

Russell made a face, impressed. "You'll do it," he said confidently, eyes flicking from the screen over to him, and smiled.

Grissom acknowledged the supervisor's words with a slight nod. "What's your area of expertise?" he asked, curious.

Russell's face lit up and he refocused fully on him. Suddenly giving a start he held out the mug of coffee he'd been carrying to Grissom. "It's for you," he said, and then, as registering a look of surprise Grissom took the proffered cup, answered before Grissom could nod his thanks. "I don't think I have one," he admitted, his frown deepening as though he'd only just come to the realisation. "I mean, I dabble in a lot of things."

"But not bugs."

Russell gave a chuckle. "Oh, no. Not bugs." His smile clouded as a look of sadness came about his eyes. It was a moment before he spoke again. "First DB case I ever worked, way back in the day…I'll always remember it. Eighteen-year-old girl," he went on, unprompted, "found dead in a ditch on the roadside, naked. Beautiful gal with beautiful long blond swept-back hair." His hand moved to his own hair, and he mimed a sweeping back motion. "Farrah Fawcett style, you know?" Grissom's mouth opened but before he could acquiesce, Russell spoke on. "She'd been missing for over three weeks; her smiling picture was all over the news. Anyway, it had been raining hard, relentless rain, and…" his voice trailed off, and he smiled again but his look of sadness lingered on, "I'm sure you get the picture."

Grissom was moved by the supervisor's visible emotion at the recollection of an event that would have taken place some thirty years ago. Eyes flicking down to his cup he gave a nod. Then he brought the coffee to his lips and took a tentative sip and then another, at a loss as to how to go on from then.

"You heard from Sara?" Russell asked, face and voice solemn now.

The question, seemingly harmless, gave Grissom pause. He looked up at Russell and shook his head.

"Yeah, me neither," Russell said, and Grissom felt an inane surge of relief at the thought that Sara hadn't singled him out on purpose. "I think she's dodging my calls."

"You know what hospitals are like," he said, thinking she was dodging his too, "She's probably got her phone switched off."

Russell's twitch of the lips was unconvinced. "So, anyway," he said, "I'm just back from the morgue. Doc's half-way through doing the post on our vic, but he's confirmed your working theory. The bullet's in a bad shape, small calibre, .22 maybe? Bobby's looking at it." He raised his hand to his forehead, pointing just above his left eyebrow. "Entered just above there at a slight upward angle, ricocheted off the back of the skull there," he added, moving his finger to the top of his head, "back into the brain."

"Upward angle you say?" he asked, his eyes narrowing in surprise.

Russell gave a nod. "Just ever so slightly."

The crease on Grissom's brow was deep as silently he nodded his reply.

"Death was instantaneous," Russell went on, "she wouldn't have felt a thing, probably didn't see it coming." His face took on a thoughtful expression. "There's something else bothering me, something about the position of the body, or rather the angle it fell at in relation to the yard, which we agree is where the shot was fired from, right?"

As Russell spoke Grissom had been visualising the crime scene in his head and he gave an automatic nod in reply. Then, he stared at Russell uncertainly, waiting for him to continue, unsure how exactly he was expected to respond. Was Russell asking for his help for more than just establishing time of death? "Doesn't feel like a professional hit, does it?" he said when the silence stretched on.

Russell sighed. "No, it doesn't."

"We need to find the casing."

Russell's face lit up with a grin. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Grissom gave a chuckle, finding that he was rather enjoying himself. "Someone slid the pool house doors shut afterwards," he mused out loud, "Timothy might have done it of course, but I'm inclined to think that if he'd found his mother lying there he'd have gone to her―"

"―compromising the scene in some way in the process," Russell finished, taking he words right out of his mouth.

"And it wasn't," Grissom said.

Russell gave an assenting nod. "Which only leaves our killer," he said with growing enthusiasm. "Everybody else would have called 911. That's why I asked Mandy to start with the prints Sara collected on the door."

"Our perp might have worn gloves of course," Grissom deadpanned.

"Oh, come on," Russell protested in good-humour, "I didn't take you for a glass-half-empty kind of guy. You just said it wasn't a professional hit."

"No," Grissom amended mildly, "I said, it didn't _feel_ like a professional hit."

"Point taken," Russell said with a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement.

There was a pause. Grissom's eyes refocused on his work and the barely started timeline. His expression sobered, and he put the cup of coffee down on the workstation with a sigh. "You let Brass know?"

"That our vic was shot? Yeah. Told him to keep it to himself for now though, but I think Sara needs to know, especially since the husband's on his way."

Grissom turned round, meeting Russell's eye, and nodded. "I agree."

His ready agreement seemed to catch Russell unawares. "I can do it if you want," he offered, his tone showing his surprise.

"No, I'll do it," Grissom said quickly, too quickly he realised when Russell's gaze narrowed imperceptibly. He sighed and lifted his shoulder, but offered no explanation. Uncomfortable under Russell's prolonged stare though he let his eyes flick downward.

"Sure," Russell said.

Grissom looked up, a small, grateful smile on his lips. "I appreciate it."

Russell gave a nod. Then he dug his hands in his pockets, swaying on his feet a couple of times before walking backwards, headed out. "We ought to do breakfast when all this is over," he called, and laughed, "With Sara, of course."

Grissom's brow rose, but before he could acknowledge the words Russell had turned on his heels, disappearing down the corridor toward the main lab. Without wasting any more time he reached for his cell, dialling Sara's number.

"Sara!" he exclaimed, surprised when she picked up on the first ring.

She gave a small laugh that warmed him to his core. "You sound surprised. I was about to call you." There was a slight pause and a sigh. Her tone became serious. "I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. I―I was going to after I'd had the shower, but Timothy woke…and…became distressed and…"

The words caught, and he didn't need her to finish her sentence to get a clear picture of what had happened. The line went silent except for a remote voice on the public address system, and he waited while she composed herself. His heart broke for her and he sighed, again torn between his desire to be there for her as her husband and his need to stay at the lab and help solve the case.

"Anyway," she said after a moment, her voice steady again, "they've moved him onto the paediatric ward now. They say he's going to be fine, physically anyway, but he's so scared. He still hasn't spoken a word or…" she paused again, her words dying in a small sniff, and he knew she was fighting hard to keep it together.

"You're there for him, Sara, and that's a lot," he said, and when she didn't reply asked, "No sign of the father yet?"

"No, not yet," she said, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it. "Shouldn't be much longer from what Brass said."

He pulled a pained face. "About that, Sara, there's been some development." He paused while he searched for the right words. "Doc's established COD on the victim and―"

"It wasn't an accident, was it?" she cut in when he hesitated, her voice remarkably matter-of-fact considering how upset she was a minute ago.

"No, it wasn't, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Doc found a bullet."

"She was shot?" she exclaimed with disbelief.

"Yes, I'm afraid she was," he replied softly, knowing she was already drawing more parallels with her own childhood trauma.

"Brass knows?"

Grissom gave a nod. "Yeah, he knows. Russell called him. Sara, I―I…"

_I, what,_ he thought? _I'm worried about you? I have a bad feeling about this case? I want you to go home and forget all about it? I worry this case will be what pushes you over the edge?_ How could he make her see she was reacting to this case as a woman, a mother, and not as a CSI? How could he tell her that she was getting far too emotionally attached to this little boy to remain objective, without sounding uncaring and insensitive? And what would happen when the father got there and she found herself surplus to requirement? How would she feel then?

He brought a hand to his brow and closing his eyes let out a long breath, keeping to himself his long list of concerns. The silence stretched awkwardly between them, and still he didn't know what to say.

"It's okay," she said at last, her voice soft and intimate, "I know what it is you're trying to say. And I promise I'm being careful, but I need to be here, Gil. I need to do this, at least for the time being."

She was asking him to trust her, and he did implicitly. "Okay," he said quietly. He looked up at the work he still had to do and sighed. "You want me to come over?"

"No."

"I mean…I've done enough here. I could―"

"No, Gil. I'm okay. Truly, I'm okay. I need you to…stick with the timeline. Getting an accurate TOD is paramount, especially now, you know that. The father's alibi's only valid from ten pm Sunday onwards." She paused and Grissom heard male voices speaking in the background. "Gil, I got to go. The father's just got here. I'll see you back at the lab."

She had disconnected the call before he could respond, and it was with a heavy heart that he put his phone away, once again returning to his bugs, whose behaviour pattern remained a constant he understood without question. Sara's on the other hand not so much.

Grissom registered a look of shock as when he next checked his watch, having finally finished his work, the time read seven fifteen. He hadn't meant to get so engrossed and take so long, but he had been thorough, not wanting to leave anything to chance, desperate to help solve this case that already meant so much to Sara. Sara, he thought, who should have been back by now or at least called him to let him know the status quo, and it worried him that she hadn't.

He checked his cell anyway, packed up his gear and half-heartedly trudged his way to the front desk, asking if Sara was in, knowing she wouldn't. She wasn't. Her car wasn't in the lot anymore, and he didn't need to check with Russell or Brass to know where she was. He drove there fast, with his heart beating in his mouth and a sense of foreboding that wouldn't leave him.

He let himself in, finding the house silent bar for the sound of Hank's nails click-clacking on the hardwood floor as he came to greet him halfway up the stairs. The house was exactly as he'd left it, unpacked suitcases and all, when he'd left the previous day in such a hurry and Grissom absently returned the dog's greeting as he made his way to the bedroom. The door was shut and he stopped with his hand on the handle, taking a moment to calm his racing heart.

The room was dark, and he let his eyes adjust to the light before stepping in and quietly closing the door behind him. Sara was in bed, lying on her side with her back to him and the cover pulled up to her neck, sleeping. Or rather, feigning sleep; he could tell from the quick, tense way her chest and shoulders rose as she breathed. He'd watched her sleep often enough over the years to know the difference.

He sighed, a sudden pang of sadness twisting his heart at the thought that she felt the need to pretend, and padded to his side of the bed, wearily sitting on the edge and toeing his sneakers off. He wished he'd had time to shower and change, but there had been no time, and now it didn't matter anymore. Sara needed him and he hoped it wasn't too late – he wasn't too late. They'd been doing so much better lately and it had taken this case to bring all their sorrow back to the fore.

Tears welled in his eyes, and wordlessly he got undressed, lifted the covers on his side of the bed before sliding under the sheets and wrapping his arms around her form from behind. She felt so cold, so tense, so sad, and holding her was all he could do to try to lessen the pain.

"I miss her too, Sara," he said, his voice catching as tears fell from his eyes. When her shoulders began to shake with small, stifled sobs he tightened his arms around her and closing his eyes pressed his face into her neck, sharing in her grief as he had done times and times before. It would be three years at the end of next month, three years, and the pain was still as searing as it had been then.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I'm back! I'd like to thank you for the wonderful reviews you left for the last chapter; sorry I couldn't reply to them individually, but I will next time! Keep your comments, questions and musings coming please, they make for a much better story, believe me.

Anyway, without further ado…

* * *

Sara's eyes snapped open and she sat up in bed, for a moment disorientated. She was breathing hard. Outside the sun shone brightly through the blinds. Her hand fell to her stomach, expecting a softly rounded belly, finding a flat and smooth one instead, and she woke up fully, stifling a sob at the wave of emptiness that rose through her. She had been dreaming, searching through the streets of Paris for something she had lost. It wasn't the first time. How could your mind play such cruel tricks on you after three years?

Around her, silence. She rose up on an elbow, pushed back her hair, damp with sweat, and looked to her right. Grissom's side was rumpled and when she placed her hand where he had slept and felt the warmth still radiating there she felt a sharp tug in her heart. She remembered now, falling asleep in his arms, exhausted, at breaking point, his warm, silent tears soothing on her skin.

He said he missed their daughter, and maybe he did. But how could he, really? How could he miss something he hadn't got to know, something he hadn't felt grow inside him? Within her the baby had grown, a little girl they'd belatedly found out. She had been such an unexpected gift, as unexpected as she had been wanted and loved, so very much loved from the start, leaving a great big void inside and out when she had died.

Tears welled, and with them a rush of anger, as it always did. So much bitterness and resentment and guilt too, let's not forget the guilt, still left in her. He ached. Well, she did too, and she was having too hard a time shutting her own pain and feelings of loss away to help him deal with his. She wasn't equipped, and neither was he, and quickly the distance between them had grown, neither of them able to reach out to the other in a meaningful way despite the deep love and esteem they still felt for each other.

The bedroom door was open a crack, and hearing Grissom's soft voice as he shooed Hank away she pulled herself together, wiped her eyes and gave her head a swift shake. Hank ambled in anyway, pushing the door open with his body, Grissom quietly following suit, carrying a breakfast tray. He caught her eye, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tentative smile which she tried to return despite her lingering anguish.

Grissom set the tray down on his side of the bed, moved to the window, wordlessly toggling the blinds halfway open, letting in just enough sunlight to see without blinding. He remained there, silent and still, seemingly looking out, thinking. He'd showered, damp hair sticking up in every direction, and stood barefoot, his robe loosely tied around his waist. A soft instinctive smile formed, quickly fading when she felt the old stirring inside. They'd made love that morning, she remembered, and despite knowing it wasn't what had caused the miscarriage she wanted it to be so she could apportion blame.

Hank came to her side of the bed, and sitting up fully she reached over, taking a moment to return his quiet greeting. The alarm clock read two twenty pm, and Sara sighed as memories of the previous day and of the case and Timothy came back to her. She had been doing okay until the father had shown up at the hospital, shutting the door on Timothy, setting off a ticking time bomb when he'd cast her aside.

Tears formed again; she brushed them aside. She reached for a glass of juice from the tray to hide her discomfort and brought it to her lips before shakily putting it back down without drinking from it. The alarm clock read two twenty-three pm now, and still, Grissom hadn't moved from the window. He'd tried to reach out to her but yet again she had been unable to accept his offer of help and comfort for what it was. She pushed the bed sheets aside, one leg swinging over the edge of the bed. "Gil―"

"I can't do it anymore," he said, suddenly whipping round toward her.

Sara froze in her movement, her eyes slowly lifting to his face as panic filled her. "What?" she asked in a disbelieving gasp.

His shoulder lifted, he walked round over to his side of the bed. "I can't do it anymore," he repeated softly, the resignation in his voice chilling her. "It's too hard. I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry."

His mouth opened again as though he had more to say but then shut. He looked down to the bed, picked up the tray and set it down on the floor. Afterwards he sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his body so he faced her. She could only stare back at him expectantly, unsure exactly what he meant, fearing he was talking about them.

For a long time, he didn't speak, didn't meet her eyes directly, but kept them on her face, blurry, unseeing. Then he opened his mouth, gasping in a pained breath as if it was his last, and refocused on her. She wished she knew how to reach out and make the pain go away so they could start to heal and repair what had broken between them, but she didn't. She wasn't strong enough either. Her eyes briefly averting down, she gave him a nod. Maybe it was better that way.

Everything had happened so suddenly, so swiftly; one minute everything was fine, they were happy, expecting, cooing over booties and velvet sleep suits, and then the next…she was being rushed to the hospital, French voices all around, the panicked, stricken cries of passers-by first, then the broken English of paramedics and doctors as they tended to her, all too late, all speaking words she didn't fully understand, words that still haunted her to this day.

Grissom didn't speak, didn't acknowledge her nod in any shape or from. He just sat there, looking troubled and lost, the sadness in his eyes too much to bear. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted on the bed towards her. Sara could only watch, puzzled, wary and uncomprehending. His eyes lowered to her stomach and he reached over, gently pulling her top up to her breast line. The breath left her, her eyes shutting as a protective hand immediately came up to rest on her belly.

The mattress dipped as he moved a little closer and covered her hand with his. Her eyes stayed closed. She stopped breathing. Softly he lifted her hand away and even more softly pushed her chest down onto the bed until her head hit the pillow. For a moment nothing happened. Then she felt the lightest touch of fingertips across the soft plane of her stomach, back and forth, back and forth, and still she held her breath. Then he cupped both hands to her stomach as he used to do when their little girl was growing inside her, and rested his head there, his unshaven cheek bristling against her skin.

She felt his ragged breaths with every shallow breath she took, and a slow trickle of tears on her skin. She closed her eyes tighter, letting her own tears fall, and reached down to him despite herself, weaving her hands through his thick curls. After a long moment, she reopened her eyes to stare directly into his, looking up to her, full of his tears, of his grief, his guilt, the depth of his love for her and their daughter unconcealed.

"Don't," she gasped, letting her hands fall from his hair, "Please, don't. I―I can't. I―"

She was filled with such yearning suddenly that her breath was taken away, an ache that could never be filled. Her throat closed. Her breaths grew short. She couldn't speak, could only avert her gaze. It was just too much. She saw Jasmine everywhere, in every little girl she passed, in her whenever she looked in the mirror, in him now as he stared up at her. Would she be blue-eyed like Gil? Or have dark hair like her? Would she be smart, headstrong and running rings around them?

"I saw her grow too," he said, pressing his hands to her stomach, "I felt her move. You carried her, nurtured her, but she was a part of me too."

Her eyes closed, releasing more tears, then reopened. She had to make him stop. She rolled away from him onto her side and sat up on the edge of the bed with her back to him. She lowered her top, covering her stomach. "This case…Timothy, it's―"

Sharply, he pulled away from her. "No. This," he said, stressing the word tersely, "has nothing to do with Timothy or this case. _This_ is about what happened to us, to Jasmine."

Hearing him say her name out loud felt like a punch in her stomach. Loss and grief, they rose up in her like a wave, so powerful that sometimes she had to stop and lean against a wall, catch her breath and fight the nausea. They were excessive her emotions, disproportionate after three years, never far away, and she was letting them destroy her marriage.

Since Jasmine's death, grief and guilt had been a physical presence between them, overshadowing everything else, constantly growing it seemed, pushing them further apart, keeping them – _her _– distant. It wasn't his fault Jasmine had died, it was hers. He'd never once blamed her; he didn't need to, she did that for the both of them.

His hand fell to her shoulder, forcibly turning her around until their eyes met. "Sara, we lost our child, and it was hard, heart-breaking," he went on in a fraught, almost impatient whisper, and unable to deal with what she knew was coming next she turned her gaze away. "I can't begin to imagine what it was like, what it felt like for you. I'm sorry I wasn't with you when it happened. I'm sorry you had to go through it alone. But I felt it too," his voice caught and he took in a breath and let it out slowly, "and it cut me deep. But lots of couples go through what we went through―_are_ still going through," he amended softly. "Why won't you―"

"No!" she exclaimed heatedly, her arms wrapping round her stomach as she pushed to her feet. Her head shaking, she whipped round toward him. "I couldn't bear it."

"Sara," he lamented softly, his tone conveying sorrow and heartache. He was reaching a hand out to her when the bedside phone rang, startling them both. He froze in mid-movement, their eyes snapping to the device at the same time. Neither made a move to pick it up and eventually, the machine kicked in, Russell's voice filling the silence. A knot formed in Sara's chest.

"Hi, Sara, Grissom," the supervisor said. "Sorry to be calling you at home, but I thought you'd want to know. I got a call from Brass. Father's been to ID the body and he's confirmed it's that of Melinda's. From what I gathered, the psych consult didn't go well, and they're going to keep Timothy in the hospital a little longer."

A slight pause, voices in the background, and then, "Ballistics is back on the bullet too. No match in IBIS yet though, but turns out that dad happens to be the registered owner of an M&P22 Smith & Wesson. Same calibre as the bullet Doc found. Long shot, I know. Pardon the pun. Brass is…sitting on the info until we have more. I'm off back to the crime scene to search for the missing casing. I've a feeling it's going to take a while."

There was another pause, seemingly stretching, before they heard the disconnecting click and the beep ending the recorded message. Grissom was already opening drawers, hurriedly pulling out clothes, wordlessly getting dressed.

"Gil," Sara said.

He did the zipper up on his jeans and looked up. "It's okay," he said, eyes flicking back down as he tucked his tee-shirt in, "I understand." Glancing up, he gave her a small smile that betrayed his sadness at the interruption. She knew he understood though; he'd himself put a case before their relationship often enough in the past to. "You call Russell back. Tell him to wait for you. I'll drive us. It's time I checked everything's progressing as it should at the lab anyway."

She watched him as he pulled a sweater over his head and when his head poked out of the opening and he glanced at her, she gave him a grateful nod. "I'll be ten minutes."

"More like fifteen," he said firmly, "I'm not letting you leave until you've had breakfast." One brow rose, challenging her to refuse, and when his lips twitched with a smile she felt herself smile back.

She closed the distance to him. Her hand lifted to his face and she stroked it. "Thank you," she said, and her hand lingering on his cheek kissed him softly on the mouth.

As Grissom silently drove the familiar road to the lab, Sara had a hard time keeping her thoughts focused solely on the case, her past, Jasmine and their subsequent struggle to cope as a couple making it hard to.

"I meant to ask," he said after a while, cutting into her thoughts. "How did it go with the father last night?"

She turned toward him and watched the muscles in his cheek twitch as he concentrated on the road. He looked over at her, and she shrugged. "He was frantic with worry," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact, "Looked like he hadn't slept in days and was relieved to see for himself his son was alive and well." Her eyes refocused on the road. "If only he knew."

Grissom let out a small sigh, then wordlessly lowered his right hand from the steering wheel to cover her left one on her lap. She turned it upward, threading her fingers through his and squeezing gently, and stared at their joined hands, grateful for his support, his presence, his patience. She could feel his eyes flicking from the road to her face every so often, but for a long moment he didn't speak, and neither did she.

"I know you're worried about it," he said, easing a glance in her direction, "and I truly hope the father's not in on the murder."

She turned her face toward him, and when she saw the concern in his gaze gave a nod of acknowledgement. Refocusing on the road, he pulled his hand out of hers, signalled and then took a right turn onto Westfall Avenue. "You know, I was thinking," she said as they neared CSI. "You saw how messy the kitchen was, right?" She didn't wait for his nod to add, "Timothy ate whatever he could lay his hands on. And I think that's how he burnt his hand, cooking himself dinner."

Grissom turned into the lab's front lot and parked in the first available spot. "You never said he burnt his hand," he remarked with surprise, turning toward her as he killed the engine.

Sara lifted her hands, using the fingers of her left one to show him where. "There," she said, drawing a small diagonal line across the palm of her right hand, "and also on the undersides of his fingers. I think he picked up the hot pan," she added, curling her right hand around an invisible handle to demonstrate what she meant, "the one I found with crusted-over tomato sauce."

Grissom remained silent. His eyes became distant, a deep frown creasing his brow as he pondered her words. Sara watched him for a moment, briefly wondering at the thoughts in his mind. She undid her seatbelt.

"Why do you think he didn't call for help?" he asked, unbuckling too. "Go to the neighbours, dial 911 or his father's number? He's old enough to know how to."

"You saw how scared he was."

Grissom's nod was quiet, measured. Something was bothering him, she could tell. "Sara," he said carefully watching her, as though he feared her reaction, "I've been thinking. Maybe he knows what happened – and I don't mean simply the fact that he found his mother dead. I think that's a given considering his reaction."

"You think he saw her actually being shot?"

"That would certainly explain his state of extreme shock and mutism," he said, his shoulders lifting tentatively, "and the fact that he hid for so long." Sara nodded, her eyes averting as she pondered his words. "Maybe he saw the killer and feared he – or _she_ – would come back for him."

Her gaze snapped back up to his. "Do you think he could give us a description?"

His shoulder lifted again. "We'd need to get him to talk and open up first, and as things stand..." His words trailed off as his eyes flicked to a point beyond her and he gave a wan smile. Sara turned and watched as Russell loaded equipment into the trunk of a Denali nearby. When she turned back toward her husband he had his back to her and his hand on the car handle, ready to open it.

"Gil," she said, a hand moving to his shoulder, stopping him, "About before…"

He turned and paused. "It's okay," he said and reached across, touching her hair so gently that she felt a shiver run up her spine. "We're all right." His lips pulled into a small lopsided smile. "We'll find a way."


	10. Chapter 10

"This is like déjà-vu," Russell called jovially, popping his head out from behind the truck as Sara strode over to him from CSI.

She smiled, then brushed past him to stow her field kit into the trunk. On retrieving it from her locker a moment ago, she was almost moved to tears, not because Grissom had brought it back from the crime scene for her, but because he'd taken the time to restock it before placing it at the bottom of her locker, attaching a blue post-it note to it that simply said, 'All ready for you. Love, G.'.

"You want to drive?" Russell asked.

Sara swallowed, then turned a blank face toward her boss. His eyes were watchful, scanning her face, searching for something there he couldn't quite make out, and Sara felt suddenly unnerved and exposed, transparent.

"Drive?" he repeated with an amused smile, dangling the thick truck key in her eye line.

She gave her head a swift shake before refocusing her eyes on the key. "No. You do it," she replied, hoping her tone was light enough to cover her unease. "My turn to enjoy the landscape."

Russell made a non-committal sound that told her he wasn't fooled, but got behind the wheel without another word and Sara took her place in the passenger seat, grateful for the companionable silence that settled between them. Russell switched the radio on, tuning in to the local sports station, the sound turned down low. Sara leaned her head back and closed her eyes behind her sunglasses, attempting to clear the fog in her mind and focus all her thoughts on the case in hand.

"You managed to get some shuteye?" Russell asked.

Sara opened her eyes; they had just joined the interstate, headed east toward Seven Hills. "A little," she said, and turned toward him. "You met Geoffrey Carver yet?"

"Yes," he answered, keeping his eyes on the road. "He came to ID the body while I was in the morgue talking to Doc. He seemed…real upset about his wife's death. I gave him back the cat. He was puzzled by its existence." He took his eyes off the road for an instant, flicking them over to her. "Did you know Melinda was only about five-foot-three-inches tall?"

Sara's eyes narrowed in interest. "No. Why?"

His shoulder lifted. "No reason as yet."

Sara's frown deepened and she watched him uncertainly for a moment before shaking her head and refocusing on the passing scenery. "You said the psych consult didn't go well?"

He sighed. "It didn't. Timothy refused to answer any questions. He just froze up apparently, became distressed and panicked. In the end they had to sedate him."

"He hasn't spoken a word to anyone yet. Gil thinks his trauma goes deeper than just finding his mother, dead. He thinks that maybe he saw her being shot."

Russell pulled a face and nodded his head before lapsing into a contemplative silence. "If he did, he did well to hide and stay hidden," he said after a moment. "Or the killer would surely have gone after him."

"Yeah, except it kind of exonerates the father," Sara said, her tone on the despondent side. "He'd have known Timothy was home with his mother."

Russell slowed down and took the turnoff for Seven Hills. "You almost sound disappointed," he remarked mildly. "I know it would make for a straightforward case, but surely it's best for Timothy if his father's not involved in the murder." She could feel his eyes on her now, but she kept hers staring straight ahead at the road. "Isn't it?"

"I guess so," she said grudgingly, and then it occurred to her that if the killer found out about Timothy he might want to finish the job. "Do you think he's in danger?"

"Who, Timothy? I don't think so. If the killer didn't know he was there before, there's no reason for him – or her – to suspect it now."

Sara nodded and once again lapsed into silence, her eyes looking at, but not seeing, the flashing scenery. "Russell," she said suddenly, "the lack of hired help coming forward is still puzzling to me. I mean, you'd have expected a maid or a gardener, a pool guy, I don't know, someone to have reported for work and found Melinda dead."

Russell's face pursed musingly. "Well, the realty business has taken a dive lately," he said, glancing over, "and maybe she had to lay people off. Or maybe, the husband stopped paying the bills toward the upkeep of the house when he moved out."

"You've seen the state of the yard. You think Melinda's been cutting her own lawn?"

"Okay, so, maybe not. Maybe she had a new boyfriend and he did it for her. Who knows?"

"Geoffrey Carver might. Did Brass say when he'd be talking to him? Formally, I mean."

Russell nodded. "Tonight, after hospital visiting hours are over. Brass said he'd let me know so I could be present for the interview."

"Interview?" she asked, her brow arching with interest.

Russell smiled, then flicked his eyes over to her. "You know what I mean," he chided mildly, "Don't put words in my mouth."

Sara's smile was amused. "I want in too," she said, "on the _interview_."

His smile broadened. "We'll see."

Russell pulled up in the Carver's driveway, parking up behind a police cruiser. Sara pulled her CSI ball cap over her head, adjusted her sunglasses and silently they began unloading the truck, carting two metal detectors as well as their kits and whatever else they would need over to the back of the house. The sun still shone high and bright in the sky, and Sara could already feel the heat getting to her.

Wiping the back of her hand to her brow she surveyed the long expanse of land ahead, the fenced-in pool and adjoining pool house. In her mind's eye, she visualised Melinda's fallen body in the pool house with its doors open, in relation to the yard. Then, she stood it up five-foot-three-inches tall, imagined the reversed path of the bullet as it exited the head, just above the left eye at a slight downward angle, and its trajectory to the shooter standing in the yard.

The ground was level, and she walked over to where she thought he might have stood, or knelt down, scanning her eyes over the area all around her for a spent casing, finding trampled lawn but nothing else. There were some thick bushes nearby where the shooter might have taken cover they would also need to check. She knelt down and touched her hand to the ground, to something hard buried into the soil, and for a second her heart beat faster at the thought that she'd found the cartridge.

No such luck though, as on closer inspection she established that all she'd manage to uncover was one of the many small round heads part of an expensive watering system. From her crouched position, she looked up and around her, estimating the overall area to measure fifty by forty yards, minus the pool, all in all roughly two thousand square yards or eighteen square feet. How long is a piece of string, she wondered in another long sigh?

Carrying a big reel of blue synthetic rope in one hand and a black carryall in the other Russell strolled over to her, and she straightened up, noticing he was as mindful of where he was stepping as she was. "I just called Brass," he said, dumping the bag at her feet, "Asked him to put a uniform on outside Timothy's door at the hospital, just to be on the safe side."

Sara nodded. "What's with the rope?" she asked with a frown.

"It's to use with the metal stakes of course," he replied as if the answer was obvious, nonplussed by her puzzlement, "in the black sack. If you wouldn't mind…" he waved his hand toward the bag indicating that she should open it.

Sara did as bid and pulled out a mallet as well as a couple of metal stakes. Her face lit up as she realised what he was up to. "A bit old school, isn't it?"

"Don't sound so surprised," he replied, laughing, "I _am_ old school." A pause followed, then a disbelieving shake of the head. "Your old man would approve, I'm sure."

She couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her. "He's nothing but thorough, that's for sure."

"I'm glad to hear it, cos we're going to need an accurate TOD if we're to solve this crime." Russell grabbed the mallet from her hand and waved it toward the patio end of the lawn. "You hold the stake, and I hammer."

Sara laughed again, then reached for the bag and followed him back up to the patio. They took several overall shots of the scene, then gave the lawn a cursory check, the bushes, flowerbeds and borders too, coming up empty, and were half-way through measuring out a three-by-three-meter-checkerboard pattern, intersecting at right angles, over the top half of the lawn where they'd established the shot had most likely been fired from, when Russell stopped, looking up and meeting her eyes with a smile.

"I'm very, very grateful you volunteered to help," he said in all seriousness.

The feigned gravity in his tone made Sara giggle. "It's okay. I don't mind."

His shoulder lifted, and she bent down to place the next stake. "I would have thought you'd have wanted to spend as much of your spare time with hubby," he said.

She paused, looked up straight at him. "He understands."

Watching her carefully, he nodded his head. "I guess he must do." He hammered down the stake, a thoughtful look coming about his face. "I wish my wife was half as accommodating. I was supposed to take my youngest to the dentist, right about now," he added in a sigh, checking his watch, "but what can you do. The job's the job."

"Family's important to you though, isn't it?" she asked.

Russell's face lit up. "Isn't that what we were put on this Earth for? Perpetuate the specie?" He laughed, and Sara swallowed the tight ball that formed in her throat. She'd walked straight into that one. "Sure, my family's real important to me," he went on, unaware. "The job's a job, a means to an end." His smile became wistful, and she knew that he didn't truly mean that. "Well, most of the time anyway. What about you? You've never mentioned anyone, apart from Grissom, of course."

Her eyes averted back to their work. "It's…complicated."

Russell must have read her discomfort because he didn't probe further, simply unreeled more rope which he hooked to the stake and moved over to the opposite side. She followed. "I like him," he announced suddenly. He looked up, pushed his glasses up his nose and gave her a bright smile. "Your husband. I like him. I've a feeling we'd have worked well together."

Sara scoffed. "You know what they say about too many cooks."

DB laughed, and she relaxed. Quickly, they finished measuring out the final line, and he asked, "You're finding it tough?"

"What?" she asked with puzzlement as she followed him up the path to the patio. "Doing this?"

"No," he laughed. "Working with Grissom again, after all these years. Must be strange."

What was this, she wondered, twenty questions? Sara put the black bag down, swapping it for one of the bags housing the metal detectors. "We're not the same people we were when we worked together in the past," she surprised herself replying as she unzipped the bag. She wasn't looking at DB as she spoke but she could feel his eyes on her, narrowed watchfully. "Well, I know I'm not anyway, too much as happened."

"You know what he told me?" he asked, "Straight after I introduced myself to him?" Sara looked up and shook her head. "Call me Grissom," he said in his best Grissom's voice, taking the metal detector she was holding out to him, "and if you don't mind I'll call you Russell." Russell feigned a puzzled expression. "What do you suggest he was trying to say?"

Sara pinched her lips, but quiet, disbelieving laughter escaped nonetheless. "It took me…the best part of eight years to be comfortable calling him Gil. It's just his way."

"Eight years?" he exclaimed.

She nodded. "Give and take a few months."

"Ah. Go figure."

Another hour passed, and still they carefully swept their metal detectors over each square inch of the lawn they had painstakingly marked out without result. Across from her Russell straightened up to his full height and rolled his aching shoulders. She knew exactly how he felt. Sara stopped too, lifting her headphones off one ear as she looked over at him. "You found something?" she asked, her voice too loud on account of the muffled sounds coming from the headphones.

Russell walked the distance over to her, carefully stepping over the strung rope, and lifted the headphone off his head, coiling it round his neck. "What? To add to our ever-growing collection of odds and ends?" He shook his head with a sigh. "This is no good. I'm beginning to think we were wrong."

Sara frowned. "_We_?"

He made a face. "Me and Grissom." Sara's eyes narrowed even more, and he shrugged. "Last night we kind of…agreed the shooting wasn't a professional hit. And here we are now, sweeping every square inch of this lawn and still no signs of a spent casing. I'm thinking the killer must have picked it up afterwards."

So, Russell and Grissom had talked and discussed the case. What else had they spoken about behind her back, she wondered a little uneasily? She gave a sigh and her head a shake, trying to remain focused on the case and not let her personal issues cloud her judgement.

"Unless it's further down, nearer the pool," she replied after a beat.

"But that wouldn't be consistent with the position of the body."

"And we know it wasn't moved," Sara said, and he nodded. "I say we do the whole yard anyway. The whole nine yards," she added, her mouth twitching with a smile at the face he pulled at the suggestion.

"You don't give up, do you?"

Her smile widened. "The job's the job, remember? I worked a case once, turned out a bird had picked up the bit of evidence we were looking for and used it to make its nest."

Russell fixed her with a narrowed, I'm-not-amused stare, then lifted his eyes skyward, as if looking for trees, and let out a very long breath. "I'm not feeling so very grateful right now."

"Someone once told me, 'Don't be discouraged. It's often the last key in the bunch that opens the lock.'"

Russell's mouth was pursed; his head was shaking with disbelief. "And I bet I can guess who that someone is."


	11. Chapter 11

Grissom was about to push the heavy door into the morgue when his cell beeped with a text. Pausing in his tracks he retrieved the device out of the lab coat he'd borrowed from Sara and sighed on seeing the message was from her. What not call him instead, he wondered with a deep sense of foreboding? Instinctively he knew the news weren't good, a fact soon corroborated by Sara's succinct message informing him that she and Russell were headed back to CSI, empty-handed.

At least she'd thought to let him know, he mused a little disconsolately. He stood stock still for a moment, thinking the implications of her news over, then felt a wave of disappointment for her, knowing already how she would feel, disappointed and frustrated no doubt, but crushed and defeated too. With a sigh he slipped the phone back in the lab coat pocket and stepped into the morgue.

"Hello, Al," he said, his tone slightly subdued.

"Gil!" Robbins said, glancing up from the autopsy table with a pleasant smile on his face, "How good to see you again." He paused and waved him in, and Grissom let the door shut behind him. "David said you were around."

Grissom managed a small smile. "Sorry I haven't been by sooner."

Robbins made a sound, dismissing the apology, then returned his attention to his work. "You're here now."

There was a pause, and slowly closing the distance to his friend bent over the autopsy table Grissom swept his eyes over the familiar room, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and comfort at the fact that everything looked exactly the same as it used to. "It's as if time has stood still since I was last here," he remarked a little wistfully.

"If only," Robbins laughed.

Grissom refocused his eyes on the coroner who was half-way through suturing a Y-shaped incision on a male body with his customary deftness and accuracy. "So, how's Judy?" he asked.

"She's doing better, you know…" Al's words trailed off. He glanced up briefly and Grissom nodded that he understood, that he knew about what had happened.

"And the family?" he asked after a beat.

Robbins repressed a smile. "The family's good too," he replied, keeping his eyes on his work.

"Glad to hear it."

Robbins looked up at him over the rim of his glasses. "So, now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, what can I do for you?"

Grissom's mouth pursed to the side as his shoulder lifted. The coroner's eyes flicked back down and Grissom watched as he resumed his stitching. "You know how…how I'm helping out on the Melinda Carver case, right?" he said at last.

Robbins gave an absent nod. "Yes, David mentioned it."

"And…well…I have some unanswered questions. I mean…" Robbins paused and met his eye dead on, challenging him to get to the point. His shoulder lifted again. "How tall was Melinda Carver?"

Robbins put his needle down, then lifted a slightly puzzled gaze in his direction, and Grissom knew what the coroner was thinking: that Russell had a copy of the autopsy report and why didn't he go directly to him, or Sara for that matter? "I'd have to check my notes," he replied at last, then raised his hands. "Mind if I finish this first? I'm almost done."

Grissom gave a tense smile. "Sure. Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

The coroner adjusted his needle and thread, and resumed his careful suturing. "So, last I heard you were in…Texas, was it?"

Grissom's brow rose. He'd done a little consultancy work in San Antonio, true, but that was late the previous year. "Sydney," he said.

"And how does Sara feel with you being away so much?" Robbins asked, keeping his eyes averted to his work.

Grissom registered a look of surprise, both at the bluntness and private nature of the question. Sure, there had been another trip to Peru after his stint in Texas, some lectures in Chicago followed by the three weeks he'd just spent in Australia, but his consultancy business was doing very well and in the present economic climate he couldn't afford to turn down work, especially since he was now self-employed.

Before he could respond Robbins looked up. "I'm sorry," he said, giving his head a shake, "I shouldn't have asked that. It's none of my business."

"No, it's not," he said, still feeling somewhat stung by the attack. He reached across to the stainless steel tray of instruments for a pair of scissors which he held out to the coroner.

Robbins took them without a word and used them to cut the thread before dumping everything back into the tray. He peeled off his gloves, picked up his crutch and moved away to his desk. "Let's see," he said, returning to Grissom still standing at the autopsy table while perusing the file. "Melinda Carver was five-foot-three-inches tall." He looked up. "May I ask why you want to know?"

Grissom's shoulder lifted. "I may…have an idea of who the shooter is," he said, his voice quiet. Robbins watched him with questions in his eyes, and Grissom shrugged. "I'd rather not say, in case I'm wrong. It's just a hunch, as yet."

Robbins made a non-committal sound. "You _are_ passing on all your findings to DB, aren't you?" he asked with narrowed eyes, the joking tone in his voice just about covering for the serious nature of his question.

"Of course," he replied. "I'm just trying to get a measure of the case for myself, that's all, and unlike Russell or Sara I don't have access to any of the files."

"I'm sure they would show them to you if you asked."

"I know, but…I feel like I'm treading on people's toes as it is."

The coroner gave him a nod of understanding. "Would you like to see the body?"

His brow shot up with surprise, his gaze too, meeting his friend's dead on. "Yes, I would."

Robbins set the file down on a nearby table then moved over to the coolers, opening one of the top doors.

"Russell said that the bullet came in just above the left eye in a slight upward angle?" he asked.

"That's right," Robbins said with a nod. He pulled out the drawer and carefully folded the white sheet back over Melinda Carver's chest. "The shot was fatal; she died instantly."

Grissom craned his neck to get a better view of the wound. His brow creased. "And the bullet?"

"It's with ballistics. Small and squashed, what you'd expect. I sent some samples to tox too, but I expect the results to come back negative."

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod. "Judging from the location of the entry wound she had to have been staring straight at the shooter when the shot was fired." He glanced over at Robbins who simply lifted his shoulder.

"That's for you to ascertain, or rather for _Sara and Russell_ to ascertain, but that would be my assumption too."

Grissom nodded and Robbins folded the sheet back over the head before once again replacing Melinda's body in its resting place. There was a real possibility that Timothy had shot his mother, intentionally or not remained to be seen, and Grissom feared Sara's reaction if he was correct in his assumption. And that remained to be seen as well.

But if that was the case, where was the gun? What about the spent casing? He could hardly ask Sara to search inside the house without telling her why, and he couldn't tell her of his suspicions yet. He let out a long sigh, thinking that he had to play his cards close to his chest until he was sure, until more of the evidence began to corroborate what was only conjecture at this point. God, how he hoped he was wrong.

"Thank you, Al, I appreciate it."

"It's okay, as long as you don't use that knowledge to score points against Russell or…I don't know." Grissom's lips twitched with a smile, and Robbins smiled too. "I mean, this is your old turf, right? So you're bound to be feeling a little…"

"Jealous?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of…competitive. But the line is thin between the two. You draw your own conclusions."

His smile widening slightly Grissom nodded. "I won't deny feeling some…uneasiness about being here again, but it's not for the reasons you're thinking." He patted Robbins' shoulder in a friendly gesture then took a couple of backward steps toward the door. "Anyway, Al, I won't keep you from your work any longer. I'll come by again before this case is over, and maybe we could catch up properly over a drink some time."

Robbins' face softened with pleasure. "I'd like that."

"Pass on my regards to Judy."

"I will. Gil, before you go. Just an idea…you know I got this cabin in Rufus Cove, right?"

His hand on the door, Grissom stopped in his tracks, a frown of puzzlement forming as he waited for Robbins to continue. "Right," he said uncertainly, when Robbins fell silent.

The coroner pulled his glasses off, letting them hang from the neck chain onto his chest. "I was thinking…I don't know…it's empty most of the time anyway, and I thought maybe you and Sara would like to borrow it. Make a trip of it when all this has died down. Go fishing together…or something."

"Fishing?"

Robbins laughed. "Don't sound so surprised. Besides, getting away did Judy and I the world of good, you know, after what happened."

Grissom's eyes lowered and he nodded. Maybe going away for a few days, just him and Sara, when this case was behind them wasn't a bad idea but he hardly believed that it would be enough to solve their problems.

"Of course, the counselling helped too," Robbins went on quietly.

He snapped his head up at the mention of counselling before averting his eyes again, uncomfortable with the quiet, yet intent way the coroner was watching him, as if he knew more than he was letting on. Had Sara confided in him, he wondered, and Robbins was too discreet to mention it? He had thought about suggesting counselling to Sara before but to be honest he wasn't entirely comfortable himself with sharing his most private fears and feelings, and he knew Sara wouldn't be too keen either.

"Anyway, just let me know and the cabin is yours."

"I'll keep it in mind," he said, refocusing with a smile, then nodded and began to walk away. "Thank you."

Robbins' face lit up. "You're welcome. And don't be a stranger!"

Counselling, he pondered while he made his way back up the stairs to the main lab. It couldn't hurt to try, could it, and it might even help them. Well, that was if Sara agreed to seek help of course. God knew she hadn't welcomed his help so far. When he got to the garage he found Russell and Sara there, bent over his notes and timelines, and he slowed down, taking a moment before letting them know that he was there.

"So, no luck with finding the casing, huh?" he asked, aiming for a casual tone.

Russell and Sara turned around at the same time. Russell perched himself on the edge of the work station and smiled. Sara didn't. Her face was set, grim-looking. Russell opened his mouth to reply but before he could do so Sara spoke.

"I didn't know you were doing two timelines," she said, in a slightly accusatory tone.

"I'm hedging my bets," he replied, his gaze flicking from Sara to Russell uncertainly, "since we're not exactly sure when the doors were shut."

"Fair point," Russell said with an approving purse of his mouth. He pushed off the counter, then turned back toward Sara and a wide grin on his face wagged a finger at her. "You see? That's precisely why we needed him on board."

Grissom's eyes narrowed at the comment. Was Sara still having reservations about his helping out with the case? And had she voiced those out to her boss? "So, no luck with the casing, huh?" he repeated quietly, his eyes on Sara despite the fact that she wasn't looking at him.

Russell shook his head. "And we looked everywhere. Even where it couldn't possibly be."

"Never hurts to have all your bases covered," he said, refocusing on Russell.

Russell's eyes turned to Sara, as though he was waiting for her to talk, then back to him. "Kind of led me to think we were wrong. Maybe we _are_ dealing with a professional after all."

"Maybe," Grissom agreed without much enthusiam.

"Anyway," Russell said, "we thought we'd touch base before we head off to PD to talk to Dad. Hopefully he can tell us a little more about Melinda and the kind of woman she was. We still know very little about her."

Grissom gave an earnest nod. "And there's also his gun."

Russell smiled. "There's that too. You got everything you need here?"

"Sure," Grissom said with a tight smile.

"Okay." There was a pregnant pause, and then, "Well, I got to…go and check something before we head off, so…" He turned back to Sara hesitantly, "Sara, I'll meet you in the lot in five?"

Sara briefly met his eyes and nodded.

"Okay, so, see you later, Grissom," he added a little awkwardly as he left.

After giving Russell a parting nod, Grissom took a step toward Sara. "I know you're disappointed, Sara," he said softly, reaching out a hand to her, "I am too, but―"

"We looked everywhere," she cut in, crossing her arms over her chest in a typical defensive posture despite her attacking tone, "everywhere we could think of. Even at the bottom of the pool."

He paused, dropped his hand to his side. "I know Sara…I wasn't implying that you hadn't." She looked up and he shrugged, then gave her a half-smile. "You'll catch the break you need, you'll see."

Her eyes averting she gave him a terse nod.

His hand lifted toward her again. He almost told her to be careful, not to put all her eggs in the same basket, but wisely he didn't, knowing that any warning coming from him would most probably be misconstrued, like everything else he tried to tell her at the moment. "Sara," he said instead, pushing a little hair away from her face, "I've been thinking. I'd like for us to go and―"

She pushed off the work station she'd been leaning against, ducking out of his touch. "Not now, Gil," she said in a gently pleading voice. "You heard Russell, I got to go."

"It won't take long. I just―"

"Gil, can we talk about this later please?"

"No, we can't," he snapped, and checked himself. "Don't you get that there's always going to be a 'later'? That it's never going to be the right time?" His expression softened, as did his tone of voice, and she looked away. "Sara, you're going to have to let me in at some point."

Her eyes lifted, angry and wide. "Let you in? Let you in? You know how long it took _you_ to let _me_ in?"

Grissom let out a long breath. "So, this is payback, is it?" His voice was a low, resigned whisper. "Payback for the way I treated you all these years ago?" He gave a sad, continuous shake of the head. "I know you better than to believe that, Sara."

Her eyes averted but not before he'd seen them fill with tears. She was hurting, and like every other time she'd found herself in that situation she was shutting herself off, keeping him at arm's length. Well, not anymore.

"Sara, I'm trying. I really am. I'm trying to reach out to you, but you won't let me." He paused and reached out a hand to her shoulder, adding softly, "I feel like I'm losing you…"

"You're not," she said weakly, not looking at him.

"…like…like you're slipping further and further away from me." His growing desperation was beginning to show in his voice. "Sara, I want us to go and see someone. A counsellor."

Her head snapped up, and he saw fear and panic in her eyes. "A marriage counsellor?" she asked in a disbelieving whisper as more tears spilled.

"No," he denied, his heart breaking that she should think that, and paused. "You think we should?"

Her shoulder lifted and she turned her gaze away, wiping at her tears.

He sighed. "Sara, sweetheart," tender fingers moved to her chin, coaxing it upward, "I meant, a _grief_ counsellor. We never gave ourselves time to grieve properly, and…and time clearly doesn't heal all wounds."

Her mouth opened, but before she could give him a reply, her phone beeped with a text message. "It's Russell," she said, wiping her eyes, "I got to go, or he'll leave without me."

"Sara, he can wait five more minutes."

She swallowed. "I'm sorry, Gil, but I can't do this now." Her shoulder rose pitifully, "I got to go. I'm sorry."

Their marriage was in bad shape, there was no denying it, but the love they felt for each other was still strong. For better, for worse, they had vowed, and this was by far the worst they had had to face, and he would try to help her as best he could through it.

Her grief was like a wall, one that was too high for him to climb over, but he'd chip at it and keep chipping until he wore down her defences, like she had done all those years ago with his. He just hoped it would take him less time to succeed than it had taken her, and that by then she wasn't beyond help.

He gave her a resigned nod. "At least, promise me that you'll…think about it, okay?"

"I think of nothing else." She gave him a sad, watery smile and bowed her head, letting it fall against him and he wrapped his arms around her slender form, holding her tight and closing his eyes at the wave of sadness that filled him.


	12. Chapter 12

Carver was late, Brass had been called away and Russell and Sara sat waiting in his office. It had been decided that the 'interview' should be conducted there rather than in a cold interview room and Sara figured that if Carver had murdered his wife – an assumption which was beginning to look less and less likely – lulling him into a false sense of security couldn't hurt.

Russell had commandeered the couch while Sara sat perched on the corner of Brass's desk. She felt restless. True, the lack of evidence and useful leads in the case was unnerving and she wanted this interview over with so she could go and visit Timothy at the hospital. But more importantly, her brief talk with Grissom had left her tense and agitated, and with a feeling of impending doom she could not shake. She closed her eyes for an instant and tried to get her bearings.

She was scared, scared that this time she'd pushed too far, pushed him too far when he tried so desperately to reach out to her, and that soon he would cut his losses and leave. Suggesting they went to see a counsellor couldn't have been easy for him. He was at the end of his tether with her, and she couldn't blame him. So why did she find it so difficult to accept his help? Why couldn't she just move on with her life, their life, instead of wishing it away?

Tears rose in her eyes, and turning her face away lest Russell noticed she pushed off the desk, headed out of the room.

"Sara?" Russell called with concern. "Is everything all right?"

"I'll just be a minute," she called back in a choked voice, and rushed down the corridor. Once out of sight she stopped and leaning against the wall took a couple of deep breaths, willing her panic to subside. Shakily she pulled her cell out. She needed to talk to him, reassure him; tell him not to give up on her. Tears stood poised in her eyes as she waited for the call to connect, her heart sinking when she heard the pre-recorded message instead of the familiar and very much loved lilt of his voice.

"Gil, it's me," she said in a breathless whisper, turning away so no one saw her. She cleared the emotion from her voice. "I…I just needed to…talk to you. Hear the sound of your voice. I'm sorry about before." She let out a breath, and hearing approaching footsteps shot a glance over her shoulder at Brass and Carver purposely walking toward the captain's office. "Carver's just got here. I'll…call you back."

Pocketing the phone with one hand Sara wiped at her eyes with the other and followed the two men to Brass's office, slipping in just as Brass was closing the door. Once inside she moved over to Carver's right side while casting a flitting look at Russell who was watching her with questions in his eyes. Carver wore the same crumpled tan suit he had on the previous night when he had got to his son's bedside and an infinitely weary look on his face. Sara knew about grief and his appeared very genuine.

Brass opened out his hand in silent invitation to sit and after a slight hesitation Carver did as bid, sitting down across from Brass on one of the two visitors' chairs. "You've met CSI Sidle," Brass said with a nod at Sara, "And this is her supervisor, CSI Russell."

Carver's eyes flicked from one CSI over to the other before fixing the supervisor with an uncertain stare, as though trying to place him.

"We met this morning," Russell said, "when you came to identify your wife's body. I gave you back your cat."

A flicker of recognition registered on Carver's face and he nodded. "I can't believe she's dead," he said in a whisper.

Russell's expression was empathising. "How's Timothy doing?"

Carver gave a wry smile. "How do you expect?" He blinked a few times, then rubbed his hand over his face and refocused on Brass. "I'm tired. I haven't slept properly for close to forty hours, so can we make this quick?"

"Sure," Brass said with an obliging smile, and paused briefly. "Do you know if Melinda had enemies? Did she ever receive death threats for example?"

Carver shook his head. "Not that I know of."

"Any business rivals, maybe? We've been taking a look at Melinda's realty business. I understand it's quite a competitive field, especially for a woman, and in this present economic climate..."

Carver shrugged. "Mel's good at what she does, but you're right the economic downturn hit all of them hard. Million dollar houses don't sell like they used to. But someone who would want to kill her over a contract? I'm not sure."

"Did Melinda have money problems?"

Carver gave his reply careful consideration. "She was downsizing her business, making it more performing. I know she mentioned having to lay some people off. So, I guess so."

"What about the house in Seven Hills?" Russell inquired. "Is money owed on it?"

Carver turned toward Russell. "Sure," he said in a scoff. "I'm still paying the mortgage even though she kicked me out." He checked himself. "She's supposed to be covering the other expenses."

"When was the last time you were there?" Brass asked.

Carver's face pursed thoughtfully. "Last Saturday. It was my turn to have Timmy for the weekend, but because of the conference I dropped him off early."

Sara's brow lifted with interest at the comment. Maybe the killer hadn't known about Timothy being home for that reason.

"And what time was that," Brass asked, "when you dropped him off?"

Carver scratched his temple, and Sara noticed the slight tremor in his hand. "Five? Five-thirty, maybe? We stopped for sundaes first."

"And where was that?"

Carver frowned. "Calamity Jane's, over on Boulder Highway." He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. "Timmy likes the western theme they've got going there."

Brass smiled, and Sara did too. She and Grissom regularly stopped there for banana splits on the way back from days out at Lake Mead or in the Arizona desert. "That's nice," Brass said, and Sara gave her head a shake, refocusing. "And…did you go inside the house, when you dropped Timmy off? Or did you drop him at the door? I mean, these things can be kind of awkward, no?"

Carver's face lit up with a wry smile. "Are you asking me if Mel and I were still on speaking terms?"

"Were you?"

"Yes, we were. But I didn't go in. She was in the yard, on the phone. We could hear her, so we used the side gate. She was arguing."

"Arguing?"

Carver's shoulder lifted. "That's what it sounded like anyway."

Brass's eyes met Sara's briefly. "So, you went round the back, and then what?"

"Like I said, Mel was on the phone. Timmy went to play and I used the bathroom."

"In the pool house?"

"Yes. It was very hot. Timmy was thirty, so I made him a drink. I waited until Mel had finished, and then I left."

"And do you know who she was talking to, on the phone?"

"No. She didn't say, and I didn't ask."

"Did it sound like a work-related argument?"

"I don't think so."

"Did she have a new boyfriend?"

The question hit a raw nerve. Carver bristled, and swallowing looked down to his hands on his lap. He flexed them into fists a few times. "I don't know about a new boyfriend," he replied at last, his voice low and dejected, so low Sara had to strain to hear. He looked up, meeting Brass's gaze dead on. "But if you're asking whether she'd had affairs while we were still together, then the answer is yes."

Brass's brow lifted. "Any names come to mind?"

Carver let out a long breath. "What the hell," he said, resignedly. "Who am I trying to protect, huh? I know of one, but he wasn't the first or the last. Chris Matthews. I never met him, or even talked to him."

Brass made a quick note of the name. "How do you know about him, then?"

Carver gave a small smile. "I found a note once, and then when I dug a little deeper, emails. Lots of them, back and forth, over the course of several months."

Sara made a mental note to put the victim's laptop on top of Archie's work pile.

"When was that?" Brass asked without skipping a beat.

"A couple of years back."

"And did you confront her about it?" Sara asked.

Carver startled, as if he'd forgotten Sara was in the room, and slowly turned toward her. "No, I didn't," he replied in a sigh. "Mel filed for divorce. I didn't. I was unhappy in the marriage, but I could live with her infidelities. I wasn't going to leave. I loved her. I don't expect you to understand."

"Okay," Brass said quietly, bringing everybody's focus back onto him, and flicked his gaze over at Russell.

"Sir, I was wondering if you'd let us take your fingerprints," Russell said, shifting forward on the couch.

Carver's head slowly turned toward Russell. "My fingerprints?"

"Yes," Russell replied with a warm smile. "We have recovered a lot of unaccounted for prints and it would be useful to be able to eliminate yours from the pile. And as you just said, you were at the pool house shortly before Melinda's death."

"Is that where Mel was killed?" he asked with surprise.

"Yes," Brass replied.

Geoffrey Carver let out a long breath. His eyes flicked over to Brass who was watching him evenly and then back to Russell. He was looking hesitant, and Sara thought he was about to refuse when he slowly nodded his head. "Okay," he said, "I don't have anything to hide. You already know I came round to drop Timmy off so my prints are bound to be there, right?"

Russell smiled and nodded his head. "Thank you." He reached for the handheld fingerprint reader from the kit at his feet then stood up. Carver extended his left hand, and Sara's eyes zoomed in on the wedding band glinting under the brash artificial light, surprised that he should still be wearing it when he and his wife had been separated for several months.

Her eyes dropped to her own wedding band, looking worn and not so shiny anymore. In the four years she and Grissom had been married she'd only taken it off a handful of times when working at the lab and she remembered feeling naked without it. The commitment she'd made to Grissom had meant everything to her and for the first time she'd felt whole. The loss of Jasmine had put paid to that.

"You're left-handed," Russell stated, refocusing Sara's attention on the two men. Why would Russell remark on that, she wondered? As far as she knew nothing pointed to the shooter being left-handed, but did Russell suspect otherwise?

"Yes," Carver replied hesitantly. "Why?"

Russell didn't reply. "Would you allow us to take Timmy's fingerprints too?" he asked instead, keeping a neutral tone and his eyes averted downward while he scanned the last of Carver's ten digits.

"Timmy's fingerprints," Carver repeated with puzzlement, "But why?"

Russell gently dropped Carver's right hand, then looked up to him with a smile before resuming his seat on Brass's couch. "For the same reason we took yours," he said amiably, and Sara's puzzled frown deepened.

Carver turned toward Brass. "Okay. If you think it would help."

"It will," Russell said. Brass was about to speak when Russell asked, "Does…Timothy know how to dial 911?"

"Yes, he does," Carver replied with a resigned smile, as though already knowing where Russell was headed with his questioning.

"Your number?"

"Yes. It's in the house phone's memory. Or at least it was, last I checked. He called me on it the weekend before last. He had a soccer game I couldn't make, and told me about it. He's a good kid."

Russell gave a nod of understanding. "Why do you think Timothy didn't call you for help? He could have done."

Carver let out a long, despondent breath. "I don't know," he said with a slow shake of the head, his eyes losing their focus, "he won't tell me." He closed his eyes wearily then put his hands on the chair's armrests, making to stand up. "Well, if that's everything."

"Not quite, no," Brass replied, indicating with his right hand that Carver should sit back down. "We have a couple more questions. If you wouldn't mind."

Carver looked around, first at Sara, then at Russell, before grudgingly sitting back down.

"Our ballistics experts have established the bullet that killed your wife was .22 calibre," Brass said in his usual forthright approach. "And our records show you own a Smith & Wesson semi-automatic handgun―"

Carver's eyes widened. "You think I killed my wife? Is this what this is about?" He looked around the room with alarm, and then back at Brass. "I wasn't even there! I was at a conference in Carson City. I stayed at the Carson City Plaza Hotel all week. You can check!"

"Calm down, Mr Carver," Brass said, raising a placatory hand toward Carver, "We already know all that, and we have. But we wouldn't be doing our job if we didn't check every single angle. So, your gun, the Smith & Wesson, where is it now?"

Brass's calming tone seemed to do the trick and Carver settled back down. "At the house." His eyes widened in fright. "You think it was used to kill Melinda?"

"We don't know," Brass said, "But we will need to check."

Carver gave a nod. "It's in a locked box on the very top shelf in our―the master bedroom's walk-in closet. Or at least that's where it used to be. But there are others too."

"Others?" Brass exclaimed, exchanging looks of bewilderment with the two CSI's.

Carver nodded. "Mel became quite the enthusiast. I mean, the Smith & Wesson was a wedding present from her to me, but she's the one who was interested. I never even…handled it."

"And she keeps – kept – these other guns at the house too?"

"No. They're all at the club. She does target practice there twice a week. Or she did," Carver amended desolately.

Brass straightened up with interest. "Which gun club is that?"

"Deserts Sportsman on West Charleston Boulevard?"

"And are you a member too?" Brass asked as he made a quick note of the name of the club.

Carver shook his head. "I can't stand guns. She joined when Timmy was little. She'd sometimes take him along, and I didn't like that."

"So Timmy kind of grew up around guns," Russell remarked quietly.

Carver turned toward him and nodded. "Well, Mel and I, we used to argue about it all the time, but she thought it was harmless, a sport like any other. Exciting, exhilarating. So much power, she used to say, so much control. I think she was turned on by it to be honest."

Sara's eyes shot up at such candour, but Carver was looking down, his expression unreadable. He looked up suddenly.

"I made sure Timmy knew how dangerous guns are if in the wrong hands, but well…" His words trailed and he sighed. "Don't misunderstand me. Mel was a good mother to Timmy, just not the wife I thought she would be. When the affairs began we became like…ships in the night." His eyes became distant and he smiled a sad and lonely smile. "'Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing'."

Sara frowned on recognising part of Longfellow's The Theologian's Tale, and her mind was quick to fill in the rest of the verse. 'Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing, only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak to one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.'

Carver was still talking but his words faded in the background, replaced by Grissom's pleading voice. "I can't do this anymore," he'd said to her, "I'm not strong enough. I feel like I'm losing you…like…like you're slipping further and further away from me."

The words echoed in her mind until she understood what Grissom had meant by them. She realised then that since Jasmine's death, like two ships set on opposite courses, they had been drifting away from each other, and it was only his desperate hold on the weakening lifeline that bound them together that kept her from drifting away altogether.

How long until his hold weakened, she wondered? How long until the lifeline broke? Were their ships now so far apart as to be irretrievably lost?

Without a word Sara slipped out of Brass's office, rushing down the maze of corridors and out into the cool night. Shakily she pulled her cell out and turning away from the brightly-lit main entrance dialled Grissom's number. The recorded message was about to kick in when she heard a groggy 'Grissom' fill the line. Tears immediately welled.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking.

"Sara? Honey, are you all right? What's happened? Where are you?" The love and panic in his voice triggered more tears, and she took a deep fraught breath. "I thought you were at PD? Isn't Russell with you?"

"I'm okay," Sara managed, then took another deep breath and wiped at her eyes. "Gil, I'm okay. I'm…just..."

"Sara, I can hardly hear you!"

She cleared her throat. "I understand what you were trying to tell me. I understand now. I'm sorry it took so long. You're right. I need help."

There was a pause, and she knew he was trying to make sense of her ramblings. "_We_," he amended after a moment, his voice soft and tender, "_We_ need help."

Wiping at her eyes with her free hand she nodded her head. "It's not too late?"

"Oh, Sara," he said in a forlorn sigh. "Of course, it's not too late. Where are you?"

The main door to PD slid open. Russell stepped out and eyes peering through the dark night searched for her. His expression relaxed when he spotted her a mere few feet away. He smiled, and Sara gave a weak wave back before turning away slightly.

"I'm still at PD," she replied.

"You want me to come for you?"

"No. Russell's here. I―"

"Come home," Grissom said, and once again she felt the sharp tug of the lifeline trying to pull her to safety. And this time she would grab on to it with both hands and hold on to it until she was…home.

"Sara, you okay?" Russell said, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "You're looking kind of pale."

She turned and managed a small smile.

"That's twice you walk out on me," he went on in good humour, "You even had me check the ladies' room." Smiling he paused and watched her, as if waiting for her to take the bait. He couldn't be further away from the truth. When she remained silent, the smile faded and he said, "Let's give the hospital a miss for now. We can go tomorrow. I'll drive us back to the lab and you can take it easy until the end of shift."

Sara shook her head. "I need to be home. Can you drive me home please?"

* * *

A/N: The Longfellow quote can be found in its entirety in the poem called _The Theologian's Tale_ in The Tales of Wayside Inn.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: It's never a good sign when proofreading your own story brings a tear to your eyes. Just one, mind. Must be the hormones playing up, that or the changes in atmospheric pressure. It's been a long time since I've had to issue one of them, but _some_ of you _may_ want to keep a hanky nearby, just in case. Maybe.

Please leave a review and thank you for reading!

* * *

Sara slipped out of the car, quietly closing the door after her so as not to wake the neighbours. Dipping her head, she gave DB a small wave and watched as with a nod back he pulled away, headed back to the lab. The drive over had been a silent one, Russell understanding enough to know not to probe. Once the truck's taillights had disappeared into the distance Sara turned toward the house, scared of facing up to her fears but also of what the future held.

The night was warm and still; the street eerily silent. The porch light was on, casting the house and everything around it in shadow. There was a tight knot in her chest, one that kept her breaths short and shallow. The front door opened and Grissom stepped out, stopping at the threshold just under the light, worry and sorrow clearly etched on his face. He stood barefoot and in sweat pants, and she realised that he'd been catching up on sleep when she'd called him earlier from PD.

Her eyes welled with tears and she swallowed, then head held low began walking toward him while he stepped off the porch, quickly closing the distance to her. They both stopped, and Sara looked up and stared at him hesitantly, unsure what to do, unsure how to behave toward him after everything she put him through, when all she wanted, needed, was for him to take her in his arms and not let go. Tears were running down her face now, and when his own face scrunched up in sorrow and he opened out his arms to her, her shoulders began to shake and all the pain and heartache she'd been keeping in flooded out of her.

"Oh, Sweetheart," he gasped, taking a step toward her, and falling into his arms she broke down into sobs. He tightened his hold around her, and her arms came up from under, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly while she cried. One of Grissom's hands was on her back, stoking gently, while the other held the back of her head.

"It's okay to cry," he whispered, his voice full of his own tears, "It's okay to hurt. Just let it all out."

And she did, and felt better for it. They remained there, clinging to each other right in the middle of their front yard, unaware and uncaring of where they were and who was watching, for a long time. Eventually, her sobs subsided, becoming gentle sniffs in his neck, and she pulled away from him, hesitantly meeting his own watery eyes.

There was kindness and understanding there, but also a great deal of love, an endless amount of love that at that moment in time Sara felt she didn't deserve. He gave her a hopeful half-smile, then brushed a little damp air out of her face before closing his eyes and pulling her back into his arms. The long breath that left him was one of relief.

"Shall we go in?" he said, and she could hear amusement in his voice, "I mean, I don't mind staying out here, but the neighbours might have something to say about the half-naked man standing in the nice-lady-next-door's yard."

The corners of her mouth curled upwards and she giggled. Wiping at her eyes she nodded her head and his arm around her shoulders they walked into the house. Inside it was dark, except for the flickering light of the television screen, its sound turned down low. She heard Grissom bolt the door and automatically made her way to the lounge, sitting down on the edge of the couch next to a sleeping Hank.

Her hand lifted, idly patting the top of his head, and when one of his eyes opened lazily and he raised his head off his front paws, placing it on her lap to return the greeting, she gave a faint laugh and felt her heart swell with love and a sense of belonging. She was home, and there was nowhere else she'd rather be, even if it hurt.

Grissom switched on a nearby lamp, and after taking off her jacket she began unlacing her boots. "I was asleep when you called," he said, flicking the TV off with the remote and gathering up into a pile the newspaper pages scattered all over the coffee table. "Been catching up on the news," he went on with a self-conscious smile, and she realised that he was nervous, that once again he felt awkward around her, unsure of how to go on from what had happened outside, probably wary of unsettling her shaky balance with a clumsy word or gesture. She kicked her boots off with a grateful sigh.

"You tired?" he asked. "You want to go to bed?"

Sara looked up, smiled and shook her head.

"A hot drink, maybe? Some tea."

Again, Sara shook her head. They stared at each other for a moment before Grissom nudged Hank out of the way. The boxer had other ideas though, and she watched with a smile on her face as when gentle coaxing failed Grissom resorted to forceful shoving. Hank hopped down from the couch with a whimper of discontent while Grissom flopped down next to her with a sigh of contentment. Her smile widened and she laughed.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked softly, hesitantly. Her shoulder lifted, and a pained look crossed his face. "I mean…did something…is it about Timothy?"

"Timothy?" she repeated with surprise, and shook her head. A weary hand lifted to her face and she let out a long breath. "No. During the interview, his father said some things about his marriage to Melinda that made me…feel uncomfortable, that made me…realise what I stood to lose if…I lost you. I―I…" She met his gaze and tried to tell him with her eyes what she couldn't with words, saying at last, "I don't mean to shut you out the way I do. I―"

"I know you don't."

"All my life, I've always had to be strong. But I'm tired, Gil, and I'm not so strong anymore."

His hand lifted to her back, stroking soothingly. "Sara, there's no shame in admitting you need help; it's not a weakness to be feeling the way you do." He opened his mouth again, then shut it and opened his arm out to her fully. "Come here," he said in a whisper.

Sara shifted on the couch nearer to him. Then she brought her legs up and tucked them under her while her face nestled against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her head and sighed.

"You're not going to lose me, Sara. I love you." He leaned forward and dipped his head, meeting her eyes. "Those vows I made meant everything to me. I know we're in a tight spot at the moment, but …we'll work through our problems."

He smiled, and seeing the certainty in his eyes she nodded her head, wanting to believe his words above everything else. She was curling herself deeper into his embrace when she felt his body tense. Glancing up she saw that his gaze was fixed to the coffee table in front of them. Maybe the case had made the news, she thought and turned her head toward the newspaper to find out.

His left hand shot out, reaching forward and pushing the newspaper aside, and she realised it wasn't the newspaper that had caught his attention but some photographs partially hidden underneath it. Frowning Sara placed her hand on his arm to stop him, then leaned forward and slid the photographs out fully from under the newspaper. The top one she recognised as one he always kept in his wallet alongside a picture of them taken on their wedding day.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she could hear deep sorrow in his voice, "I should have put these away before you saw them. I―I didn't think."

Sara looked over at him and met his fearful gaze. "You don't have to hide these from me," she said in a tone that mirrored puzzlement and sadness.

His shoulder rose in reply, and soon she understood why. In her hands she held three pictures, two of which she'd seen before, many times. The third one took her breath away. Her hands began to shake. She could barely focus enough to see the happy scene depicted in front of her eyes and yet she didn't need to for she remembered the day as vividly as she did their wedding day.

She lowered her hand to it, but snatched it back up before making contact, and turned questioning eyes to him. He was watching her cautiously, guardedly even, as though he feared her and her reaction, as though his looking at the pictures, happy memories he treasured and meant so much to him, was forbidden and an act of betrayal on his part. She knew that ever since the miscarriage he had been tiptoeing around her, but she never saw how bad it had got.

"Do you think it would help?" she asked in choked whisper. "Do you think it would help _us_, if we went to see a counsellor?"

She saw a long breath leave him. His gaze flicked down to the trembling pictures in her hand and then back up to her face. "I don't know," he replied. "I hope so, because we can't go on like this. _ I _can't go on like this."

Sara swallowed and fell silent. Her eyes returned to the picture. "Me neither," she said in a small voice and closed her eyes, releasing two lone tears.

Shifting on the couch, Grissom turned her gently round by the shoulders, then took the pictures out of her hand and watched her closely. "I know someone," he said, "She's…she helped me, before. When Warrick died," he explained when her gaze became probing, and cleared the emotion from his throat. "I think she could really help us."

Her hand lifted to his face, to the tears poised in his eyes, and she nodded. "Then, we'll go," she said, determined to make it right by him, by them, and save her marriage.

Grissom's face lit up. "Her name's Patricia Alwick. You'll like her, she's very nice. I'll call her tomorrow," he went on eagerly, and she wondered if he was acting so swiftly because he feared she would change her mind, "And make an appointment."

Sara swallowed the constriction in her throat. "What about your plans?" she asked. "Jake Soames?"

"I've already called him to postpone the visit. It's not important. _This_ is important, Sara," he added, holding her gaze meaningfully while he lifted the photographs to her eye line, and she gave him a nod.

His eyes lowering, he pulled out the black and white picture of him and his parents and put it on top of the other two. The look in his eyes became wistful, but the smile stayed on his lips. It was an old, faded and creased snapshot dating of when he was a toddler. The picture had been taken outside a church, Grissom couldn't remember the occasion, but all wore, what he fondly recalled, their Sunday Best.

A soft smile instinctively formed on Sara's face. She knew the picture well as it was one of the few Grissom had with his father on, and she loved looking at it. She loved looking at his cherub face and chubby arms and legs sticking out of a dress romper suit. Betty held her son in her arms while his father stood proudly behind them with his hand resting on his wife's shoulder. It was a formal shot, neither parent smiling as such, and yet there was no denying the love and real feeling of unity, of the three of them being a family, emanating from the picture.

"When my father died," he said in a quiet reflective voice, and Sara turned a solemn expression toward him, "my mother kept her grief to herself, actively protected me from it." He paused; his eyes remained focused on the picture and he swallowed. "I was nine, remember. She told me he had passed away, that God had called him back, that now he was in Heaven watching over us. After his funeral and despite the fact that we went to his grave every week, every Sunday come rain or shine, we didn't talk about it again. We talked about _him_, he was everywhere still, but never about his death."

He looked up then and turned his face toward her, meeting her gaze dead on. "Sara, I'm not trying to compare you to my mother, or even your grief – our grief – to hers. I know it's not the same as losing a child." Blinking, he blew out a slow breath. "I'm just saying that…I don't know…I guess she and my father were given time together, time to make some memories and―"

"And she had you," Sara cut in softly.

He paused and gave her a nod. "I guess she did," he said in a sigh and lapsed into silence, and Sara wished she hadn't interrupted him.

Her eyes averted down and she pulled out of his hands the photo of them on their wedding day. Her lips curved into a smile at how happy and carefree they both looked, tan and youthful too. She felt tears build up. Her hair was curled, his long and already grey. She wore a plain cream, floaty dress, and him dark dress pants and a white shirt, open at the collar. Just the two of them, before it all fell apart, a lifetime ago it seemed.

Her eyes glazed over, and she flicked them to the last photograph in his hand, the one he was himself so intently staring at, the one Sara didn't even know he had kept. Her breathing quickened slightly. She took a breath and then another, willing herself to keep it together. Grissom must have sensed her distress because she felt his arm drape across her shoulders in silent support. Shakily she reached out her hand and touched her fingertips to it.

Her fingers moved down, following the curves of hers and Grissom's smiling faces down to her softly rounded stomach. She was almost six months pregnant, and showing, her blouse stretching too tight over her body. It had been a beautiful day and both she and Grissom wore matching grins as they squinted into the sunshine. Grissom's right hand lightly rested on her waist and her head was on his shoulder.

She remembered the day like it was yesterday. They had been shopping and had decided to make a detour via the Jardin des Tuileries on the way home. You couldn't see it on the picture Grissom had cut down to size, but she remembered holding bags of maternity clothes. They'd been strolling, arm in arm, down the wide, sunny aisles of the public garden when they'd come across the bronze statue of _Eve _by Rodin. Poor _Eve_ had also been cut out of the picture.

Grissom had taken a shot of her in front of it, insisting it was most apropos since it was said that over the months Rodin had to repeatedly modify his sculpture as his model's weight, shape and posture kept changing due to her unknowingly being pregnant. A passing couple had offered to take a picture of the two of them together. Sara's happy smile faded as tears filled her eyes. A few days later she'd miscarried.

"I know it's painful to remember," he said, and she closed her eyes at the stab of pain that shot through her, "I know it's tough to see yourself so happy when you feel so wretched inside. But it helps me. Remembering the good times helps me get through the bad ones." His voice was a fraught and choked whisper now. "I hold on to these pictures, Sara, because when I look at them I see and feel love. A lot of love."

Grissom stood up suddenly but before he could walk away she reached for his hand, keeping him in place. Then she pushed to her feet, turned him around and when he wouldn't meet her eyes wrapped her arms around him. "I see love in these pictures too," she said and closed her eyes and held him while he cried.

Holding on to her grief the way she had, without ever dealing with it, had kept him from properly grieving too, and it was time that that changed for both of them. It had taken this latest case and finding this little boy hidden at the back of the closet to bring all the sorrow and pain she'd painstakingly tried to bury to the fore. There was still a long road ahead, a lot of repressed feelings and emotion to deal with, but they had made a start and were finally talking about it instead of futilely acting like it had never happened. Maybe in time and with the help of the counsellor they would hurt less and be able to open the box and talk about Jasmine and what she had meant, and how to go on from there.

"Let's get out of here," he said, suddenly pulling away from her. "Let's go for a drive."

"A drive?" she repeated in a gasp of disbelief.

"Yeah," he said earnestly, wiping a rough hand over his face. "Let's just do it. Let's just drive out to the desert. We can gaze at the stars and watch the sun rise, like we haven't done in a long time. We don't have to talk. We don't have to say anything at all." He lifted his hands to her face, cupping it, and stared at her with renewed fervour. "Sara, since I got back we haven't had any time to ourselves. I've been gone three weeks, and it was too long. I missed you. That's why I wound everything down so quickly."

"I thought you were having a great time in Sydney," she tried, a smile pulling at her lips.

His shoulder lifted. "I missed being home, Sara. I missed being here with you." His look was intense and sincere and she knew he was speaking the truth. "So, come on, what do you say? You, me, the desert and the night sky for a few hours." At that very moment Hank gave a whimper, and Grissom laughed. "And Hank, of course."

Her smile grew wider, and she gave a vigorous nod. "I'd like that."


	14. Chapter 14

Grissom pulled up outside the main entrance to Desert Palm hospital. Keeping the engine idling, he turned toward Sara and smiled. "You're sure you don't want me to wait for you?"

"No," she replied, returning the smile softly, "You go on ahead. I don't know how long we'll be."

Grissom studied her for a moment and when her smile widened gave her a grudging nod. His hand moved to her cheek. "I had a good time today."

Her face softened. She undid her seatbelt and leaning across the middle console pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "Me too," she said tenderly as she pulled back. Her thumb brushed against his cheek and she smiled again, wanting to prolong the moment as much as he did. "I got to go," she lamented in a sigh.

Nodding he dropped his hand and she pulled back from him. "Don't forget to take your kit," he called as she opened the car door.

She looked back at him and nodded. "I'll see you back at the lab."

"I'll be in the garage," he said, an amused smile playing round the edges of his mouth, and she thought that it was good to see him smiling again and not be so wary around her.

Their night in the desert had been good for them; she felt calmer and more at peace now, with him and within herself. As they'd lain on the blanket, looking skyward with Grissom talking in quiet whispers and pointing out constellations to her, she had understood why he had felt the need to take her back there.

The desert, the sky and stars, they were a constant; they never changed, not really. There was something humbling about staring at the immensity of the universe. It made her appreciate how small she was, how small they all were, in relation. It made her feel less empty too, and for a few hours she'd been able to suspend her grief.

"Wherever I happen to be in the world," he'd said the previous night, turning a wistful smile toward her, "I know you and I are looking at the same stars, at the same sky, and I find that incredibly comforting."

He'd propped himself up on an elbow and they'd kissed, gentle tentative caresses of the lips at first, gradually deepening and becoming more urgent the more she'd allowed herself to relax and be loved. On the way home, they'd driven past Calamity Jane's and she had recounted what Carver had told them about his life with Melinda.

She pulled her field case out of the trunk, then shut the lid and he drove off with a cheery wave. Sara watched the car disappear with a wistful smile on her face, then gave her head a shake and headed inside. She felt anxious about seeing Timothy again, unsure how he'd react, how she would. She was waiting for the elevator to show when a breathless Russell jogged up to her.

"Sara," he called, "I almost didn't make it!"

The elevator doors slid open and after all the occupants had disembarked they stepped in. "What happened?" she asked, flicking her gaze in his direction.

"Oh, some old lady drove into the back of the truck. No real damage done, but by the time we'd swapped details…" He let his words trail off with a lift of his shoulders. "Anyway, you're feeling better?"

"Better?"

"Last night. You kind of…scared me a little." There was a pause, and Sara kept silent and her eyes fixed to the backs of the people in front of them. DB leaned in closer, his voice lowering. "Sara, I'm worried about you. It's not like you to go home mid-shift, especially right in the middle of a case such as this one."

The elevator stopped. The doors opened, and he paused. She could feel him watching her closely as he waited for a reply. Some people got off while others joined them.

"You've booked a week off starting next Friday," he went on, stepping closer to make space in the crammed cab, "and I was thinking that…well, should you want to bring your vacation forward a few days then that'd be fine with me." Sara turned a surprised expression toward him. "I know we're short – we always are – but Nick's back on Monday."

"I'm fine," she said, giving him a warm smile.

"Well, that's the thing," Russell said, looking sceptic, "I don't think you are."

Sara's eyes averted down and she sighed. "Yesterday, I was feeling a little under the weather, that's all."

"Under the weather, huh?"

Her smile returned at his disbelieving tone, and she met his quietly probing gaze. "That's right."

"And you're feeling fine again. Now, I mean."

"I am," she said evenly, and Russell pursed his mouth in disbelief before nodding his head in acceptance.

The elevator reached the third floor and the doors opened again. Sara's smile faded, and she swallowed the sudden lump that lodged in her throat at seeing Timothy again. Russell opened out his hand and they exited the elevator, headed to the nurses' station for an update on Timothy's condition before they proceeded.

Geoffrey Carver was already waiting at his son's bedside, quietly reading from a comic book, and Sara's face lit up a little on seeing Timothy sitting up in bed, cuddling Buddy the cat in his arms. Carver stopped reading and looked up, causing Timothy to look up with a start. His expression went from relaxed to fearful in an instant. His gaze fixed on Russell and he visibly tensed up. Sara plastered a wide smile on her face and lifted her hand in a friendly gesture.

Carver put the comic down on the bedside table and stood up. "I thought about what you said," he said, addressing Russell, "And you were right."

Sara frowned and Russell leaned in toward her, explaining in a whisper, "I thought having Buddy here might help."

"They made an exception. He can't stay long, or wander around," Carver filled in.

"You know when Timothy can go home?" Russell asked, moving over to Carver's side of the bed.

"Tomorrow," Carver said, his face lighting with pleasure as he shared the news.

Sara nodded, then walked over to the bed and reached out a hand to Buddy. "Hi, Buddy," she said forcing an overly cheery tone as she gave the cat's whiskers a tickle, "You remember me?"

The cat shied away from her. Without looking at her, Timothy tightened his hold on him protectively, and Sara's smile wavered. She flicked a hesitant gaze to Russell who simply grinned back at her encouragingly. Getting through to Timothy to get him to open up wasn't going to be easy.

"Mr Carver," Russell said, "Why don't you and I go for a cup of coffee, huh? There's a machine down the hall."

Carver gave a start at the suggestion and stared at Russell uncertainly. His gaze shot to Sara by the bed, and then to Timothy.

"We won't be long," Russell went on, "ten minutes at the most. Sara will take good care of Timmy, won't you, Sara?"

"Of course," Sara said, "Timmy, Buddy and I are friends, aren't we, Timmy?"

Timothy didn't acknowledge Sara's words. Carver hesitated a moment longer before finally nodding his head. He touched his son's head affectionately and told him he wouldn't be long. Again, Timothy didn't respond, but Sara noticed he didn't pull back from his father's touch either. His attention was still fixed on the cat though, and she wondered whether he remembered her at all. The fact that he didn't seem to made her feel uneasy. She cast her eye around a little anxiously, and noticing the comic book Carver had been reading from decided to start from there.

"I used to like comics too when I was little," she said, attempting to break the ice but Timothy never lifted his eyes off Buddy. "Remember when I told you I used to take books into my closet?"

Sighing when she got no response, she put her kit down at the end of the bed and opened it. Timothy stopped petting the cat and craned his neck to look inside it. Sara's brow arched in interest.

"You know," she said, deliberately not looking at the boy as she spoke, "this case is like a magician's bag of tricks." She pulled out the handheld fingerprints reader and turned, holding it toward him so he could see. "You like magic? You want me to show you and Buddy what I can do with this?"

Timothy's shoulder lifted in a non-committal shrug that made Sara smile. She put the reader down on the bed where he could see it. "What is it?" he asked after a moment, "A games console?"

His little voice was sweet music to her ear. "No," she laughed as she switched the device on. "It's more like a camera, except that it doesn't take photos, not like ones you've seen before anyway." She tried to make eye contact with Timothy, but he only had eyes for the reader. When Buddy made a swipe at it with his paw Sara got an idea. "Do you think Buddy would like to try it maybe?"

Timothy's expression became alarmed again, and he pulled the cat away. "Will it hurt him?"

"Not at all," Sara said warmly. "You can even do it yourself if you want." Timothy's eyes lifted uncertainly, and she nodded encouragingly. "All you do is place his paw on the screen, hold it in place and press the button. The machine does the rest."

After careful deliberation Timothy tried, and Sara immediately noticed that like his father the little boy was left-handed. After scanning all of Buddy's paw prints Timothy had relaxed enough to be smiling and Sara suggested that he tried with his own fingers. Once again curiosity won over the boy's initial reticence, and he happily complied. As she helped him along Sara couldn't help stealing glances at his face. She felt connected to him, for obvious reasons, but she also felt an intense, painful longing inside when she watched him, a longing that tugged sharply at her heart.

"Timmy," she said, her tone solemn, when they had finished and he was looking through her kit for more interesting bits, "Do you know what happened to your mommy?"

The boy paused in his movement and without meeting Sara's eye shrugged his shoulders.

"You know she was hurt, right?" she went on in a gentle voice, her hand reaching to his head but not making contact. "Did you see it happen?"

Timothy gave her a slow nod, and she sighed.

"My job is to find out who hurt your mommy so that they can go to jail, but to be able to do that I need your help. I need you to tell me what you saw. So, can you help me? Can you tell me what you saw? I mean, it helps me a lot when I tell someone about something that upsets me."

She paused and waited, but Timothy didn't respond. He was looking downward and when Sara dipped her head to make eye contact she saw that his eyes were staring into nothingness, unfocused. Buddy wandered off Timothy's lap to explore. Sara picked him up and gave him a stroke before returning him to Timothy. But it was no good; she'd missed her chance.

"You know, maybe I should have tried getting him to draw what he saw," Sara mused as she and Russell rode down the elevator afterwards.

DB's smile was compassionate. "You tried your best," he said, "But if the docs can't get him to open up…"

Sara's sigh was despondent. "One thing's for sure, he definitely saw what happened. I even think he knows who did it."

Russell's brow lifted in interest. "Do you think his keeping silent is his way of protecting them?"

"I don't know."

They exited the hospital and silently made their way across the car lot to the truck. "You want to grab some dinner before we head back to the lab?" Russell asked, turning the engine on.

"I'm okay," Sara said, and buckled up, "You go ahead if you want."

He fixed her with a probing stare. "You're sure?"

She shook her head in amusement at what he was doing, and then smiled at the recollection of the lovely meal she'd shared with Grissom earlier. "Sure," she said decisively, "I've already eaten."

Russell nodded. Then he put the car in gear and drove out of the car lot, negotiating his way toward downtown Vegas in the general direction of the lab. Sara was beginning to wonder if he'd changed his mind about eating when he turned into Taco Bell's on West Flamingo, parking in the first available spot.

"I won't be long," he said, feeling his hand to his breast pocket for his wallet before opening the truck door and jumping out.

He'd left the keys in the ignition, and after turning the radio on she leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes and replayed her one-sided conversation with Timothy. The aftermath of her own childhood trauma was never far away from her consciousness, and she was glad Carver hadn't shot his wife. Unlike her, Timothy would be spared a hard and lonely life of foster homes and…unsettledness.

Russell returned in no time, balancing a paper bag and a cardboard drinks holder. He held out the tray to Sara and then slipped behind the wheel, placing the paper bag on his lap.

"Regular here?" she asked with a teasing smile as she transferred the drinks into the truck's cup holders.

"Don't tell," he said, "Or I'll never hear the end of it."

Sara laughed.

"I got you a coffee," he went on, with a wave at the drinks, "and a muffin. I couldn't have you sitting here watching while I stuff myself." He set about getting the food out, hurriedly handing her the cellophane-wrapped treat.

"Thanks," she said with surprise as she took the proffered muffin.

"It'll keep for later if you're not hungry." He shook open a paper napkin, tucking one corner of it into his shirt collar, and ripped the wrapper off the top half of a burrito before hungrily biting into it. "I can't get enough of this stuff," he said, chewing, and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Laughing, Sara set the muffin down on the dashboard. Then she reached for her coffee and taking the lid off tentatively brought her lips to it.

"It's nice to see you smiling again," he said. "I was starting to think you and Grissom were having marital problems."

Sara gave a snort, spluttering coffee everywhere. She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, her eyes averting to her coffee-spattered front, unsure whether to be touched, embarrassed or angry at his concern.

Russell pulled the napkin off his collar, swapping it for her cup, and rummaged in the paper bag for some more. "I'm sorry," he said, barely containing his grin of amusement as Sara began dabbing at herself.

"No, you're not," she defended in good-humour.

"Okay, I'm not," he admitted. "But it's true, Sara, I was worried. All the tension between you two can't all be because he's helping us out with the case."

Russell's words gave Sara pause, but she didn't answer. Russell resumed eating. "You and your wife?" she asked after a moment, turning toward him. "Always solid?"

"Yeah," he replied without missing a beat and finished chewing. "I mean we have our ups and downs like everyone else, but yeah, we're solid." He paused and studied her. "Sara, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to come out with it. Are you pregnant? Is that what all the tension with Grissom's about?"

Sara's heart almost stopped. She looked down to her lap, determined to hold it together and not cry. She'd known he'd misinterpreted the signs the previous night and had been watching her closely ever since, and now wished she'd had the strength to set him straight there and then, thus avoiding all this heartache and embarrassment.

"Shit!" DB muttered under his breath. She heard the rustling of the paper bag then saw him wipe his hands on his pants legs before shifting on the seat and reaching out a hand to her arm, patting it warmly. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice mirroring his chagrin, "Me and my size sixteen. I'm such a schmuck," And then in the same breath, "Isn't Grissom happy about the news? Is that what the problem is?"

Sara knew that DB's concern was sincere and felt touched by it, but it was too much to deal with right now, especially when he was so far off the mark. What right did he have to ask such a private and intimate question anyway? She made herself look up. "I'm not…pregnant," she said, her gaze holding his unwaveringly.

"But you would like to be."

Her eyes lowered and she sighed. "Sometimes you just can't have what you want," she said and looked up, the smile adorning her lips incredibly sad.

There was an awkward silence. DB gave her arm another gentle squeeze and nodded his head in understanding. "I _am_ sorry," he said again, and she turned away at the look of pity in his eyes. She knew what was going through his mind: that she and Grissom had problems conceiving. Better he believed that than knew the truth, she thought. "You want to talk about it?" he offered quietly, and she shook her head in reply. "I mean, a problem shared is a problem halved, or so they say."

A small smile formed. She met his gaze. "It's already halved, but thank you."

He gave her a nod. "I'm glad to hear it." He moved his hand to her shoulder and patted it warmly. "Well, you know where to find me, if you ever feel the need to…talk or whatever."

Sara's smile widened slightly. "It's okay. I'm okay," she said, and found that she was. She felt pain, but she was handling it.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: The shooting incident Grissom refers to at the end of the chapter really happened in real life. Maybe I should have changed the guy's name to spare his blushes. Ah, well.

Enjoy the new season opener tonight, those of you fortunate ones able to watch it as it airs. May season 13 be a lucky one for us Grissom fans and a source of inspiration for us writers.

* * *

Sara's note, succinct and to the point, had simply said to meet her in the layout room. He'd felt like a schoolboy on the eve of his first date on finding it, excited and immediately impatient to be there. As he hurried down the familiar corridors he couldn't help stealing glances inside the various labs. A few heads lifted as he passed, some acknowledging him with a nod or a smile while others simply stared blankly back at him.

Three and a half years was a long time, and a lot had changed. Techs had been and gone in that time, and only a handful of people there knew who he was. As he neared the Trace lab he slowed down a fraction and smiled to himself. Some things though remained a constant, and as he watched Hodges hard at work, his nose in a microscope, he could feel his smile growing. Hodges slowly looked up, meeting his gaze as he walked past, and Grissom gave him a slight nod of the head before disappearing round the corner.

Sara sat at the layout room table, bent over lab reports and an open laptop, deeply engrossed in her reading. An evidence box lay open within reach. The frown creasing her brow was deep and earnest. As she read she tapped her pen on the glass top, absently, restlessly. She scrolled further down the page and pressed a few keys, then sighed and shook her head, brought the hand that was holding the pen up and rubbed at her forehead. Her eyes never lifted from the laptop, and his remained fixed on her face.

Despite their night in the desert and a lazy day spent catching up with the house and each other, she looked tired and a little downcast, melancholic even. He remembered her mentioning she'd booked the following week off and wondered whether to take Al up on his offer. A week away from everything, just the two of them and the wilderness, might just be what the doctor ordered and help them reconnect further. Maybe their appointment with the counsellor could wait until after their return. He refocused on her, still bent over the same documents, still completely oblivious to his presence, to his watching, his longing.

Every time he watched Sara he couldn't help thinking of their daughter, the gaping hole in his heart – in both their hearts. His eyes watered, and he was considering turning back before she sensed his presence when, unexpectedly, she lifted her left hand to the back of her head, gathering her hair up in a makeshift pony tail, exposing the familiar curve of her long neck. Mesmerised, he remained rooted to the spot. His hand twitched by his side, longing to reach out and stroke the tender skin there.

Her expression softened suddenly, and he knew he was discovered. Her lips pulling into a warm smile, she let go of her hair and turned toward him. "Hey," she said, "you got my note."

Her smile seemed to float all the way to him, making him incredibly happy. "I did," he replied, returning her smile as he stepped into the room.

"I came by and waited for you, but—"

"I was with Ecklie," he interrupted quickly, "Some paperwork to fill in and sign. You know, insurance and liability type stuff. It took forever." She nodded, and he covered the distance to her. "How did it go at the hospital?"

Her expression darkened, and she shrugged. "You were right, Timothy saw what happened."

Grissom's smile vanished. "He told you that?"

She nodded. "There's no doubt that he knows who did it, but he froze up. Wouldn't talk about it, and I didn't insist. Can't blame him really." She paused and sighed. Her eyes lowered, becoming sad and distant. "I didn't either, you know, not for a very long time."

Grissom's hand lifted to her face and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "You okay?" he asked, crouching down by her side. His other hand sought hers on the table and squeezed it. "You want to go grab a cup of coffee?"

Sara shook her head. Her eyes reopened, shining with fierce determination. "I need to solve this case, Gil. I need to find out who killed Melinda so this little boy and his father can get some closure and retribution."

Unease filled him, fear and helplessness too, and he swallowed. It was only a matter of time before she did solve the case and then what? Even if she didn't see it that way, they only had two suspects so far, Timothy and his father, and finding either one guilty didn't bode well for her state of mind. He stared at her, debating with himself if now was the best time to share his fears about Timothy with her, but seeing the renewed hope and determination in her eyes didn't. He couldn't, not now, not when they had only just reconnected, and he prayed, prayed that he would never need to.

Instead, he managed a smile and a small nod. "So, this the vic's laptop?" he asked, with a jerk of the head at the table, wanting to steer the conversation onto safer grounds.

Her face lit up, and she gave an enthusiastic nod. "I was…kind of hoping I could run something by you actually."

"You were?" he said, his heartbeat quickening in excitement.

Her shoulder lifted. "Her emails make for interesting reading," she said, with a teasing smile.

"They do?" Wincing as he pushed up to his full height he gave his legs a stretch before perching on the edge of the table and giving her his full attention.

"You remember me telling you about Carver copping to his wife having affairs, right?" she said, and when he nodded his head in reply patted her hand to the side of the laptop. "Well, according to this, Chris Matthews was neither the first, nor the last of Melinda's boyfriends. So far, we've got five names, five potential boyfriends we've still got to properly identify."

His lips pursed thoughtfully. "Okay," he said, then shifted on his feet against the table and folded his arms over his chest. "So, who was the last one?"

"Georgie," Sara said, with an amused twitch of her lips at the moniker, and shrugged, "also known as George Cooper. There are three George Coopers in the Vegas area, none of them in any databases. Brass is tracking them down as we speak. George and Melinda broke up two months ago, and the communication between them stops quite suddenly after that."

"Who did the jilting?"

"Melinda did, and it wasn't pretty. She just dumped him – told him she was bored with him, that it was over."

"In an email?" he exclaimed, aghast at the thought.

Sara's shrug was matter of fact. "Welcome to modern dating," she said, and pressed a few keys on the laptop before turning the device toward him.

Grissom reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses and after slipping them on scanned his eyes over the email she'd retrieved.

"One thing is for certain," Sara said enthusiastically as he read, "Melinda was the one in control, in all the relationships. _She_ called the shots, arranged all the meetings...everything on her terms."

He looked up, met her gaze. "Even the break-ups."

"Especially the break-ups," Sara said, nodding her head. "_She_ broke up with all of them. Never the other way round. And always by email."

She tapped a key on the laptop, and another email popped up. Grissom leaned in again, and began reading the back and forth dialogue between the two lovers. The text was explicit and evidently pre-breakup. When Grissom had read enough, he removed his glasses and met her expectant gaze.

"But all that stopped two months ago," he said, adding a little tentatively so as not to hurt her feelings, "it's a bit of a stretch to think he had anything to do with the murder. Maybe there was another boyfriend since. One she didn't correspond with by email."

"Maybe," she replied, unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm, then clicked over to another opened document, "Maybe not. Check this one out. It's dated May 9th."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "A week last Wednesday."

Sara nodded. "Three days before Melinda was last seen alive."

His eyes dropped to the email she'd brought up on the screen. The message was short, to the point and very much unsigned. The tone of the letter was familiar though, very familiar. His brow rose, and he went back to the start, reading the email a second time just to be sure. Then he looked up over the top of his glasses, and shared a knowing smile with his wife. And just like that, he was transported back to times past, a time when they could read each other's minds and reach the same conclusions, and it felt good.

"Well, that certainly puts a new spin on things," he said, hardly wanting to believe that they finally had a suspect that wasn't Timothy, or his father.

"The account was created that same day and only one email was sent from it. The name's bogus. It's been closed since," Sara went on, "but you agree it's from…this Georgie, right?"

Grissom slipped his glasses off. "Well, it certainly reads like it, but we're going to need more than that to prove it. What about the victim's cell phone? Didn't you say she was heard arguing the Saturday before she died?"

Sara gave a chuckle that made him narrow his eyes questioningly. "_We_," she replied, stressing the word meaningfully, and he pulled a face at his lapse, "don't have her cell. DB looked for it again this morning when he went to pick up the Smith & Wesson but he couldn't find it. _We_ are waiting on court orders for both the cell and house phone records."

"Good," he said with a wink and a mischievous grin, and pushed off the table. "Then my work here is done."

"Before you return to your bugs," she said, laughing, "can I run something else by you?"

"Sure," he said, with a smile of pleasure.

"When DB went back to the house he found the gun in its original box, but it wasn't in the closet in the upstairs bedroom where Carver said it should be." Grissom's brow creased and he resumed his spot on the edge of the table. "It was in the laundry room, out of reach of Timothy, but in plain sight."

Grissom's lips pursed thoughtfully. "Had it been fired?"

"Bobby's still looking at it. The magazine was in the box too. All twelve rounds accounted for."

Bringing his right index finger to his lips Grissom made a sound while he pondered the new information. "Any prints?"

"Still pending. We're also checking the vic's other guns. She had three – another Smith & Wesson, same as the husband's, a 9mm Beretta 92FS and a Walther P22 – she used for target practice. All were under lock and key at the club." She paused and gave a long, musing sigh.

"What?" he asked, worry creeping back at the sudden change in her expression.

Her shoulder lifted. "I can't help wondering why the husband put up with it all for so long – the affairs, the guns. I mean, why didn't he leave _her_? He said it himself, he was unhappy in the marriage."

"He loved her," Grissom said simply, unknowingly echoing the husband's words, "And having even only a small part of her was enough for him. Having to share her was better than not having her at all. When she filed for divorce he stood to lose everything he held dear." Sara's smile was soft as she held his gaze. "I mean, I'm extrapolating here," he added, his lips pulling into a roguish smile, "I never even met the guy. Is there any evidence she was leaving him for someone else?"

"There's nothing in her emails or in the divorce papers to suggest so. And no one's come forward either." Her expression darkened, and flicking her gaze away she sighed. "Do you think the husband did it?"

"In desperation? If he couldn't have her then no one could?" He puckered his lips as he pondered the idea. "I don't know. It's possible I guess. What about you?" he asked, carefully watching for her reaction, "You still think he did it?"

She shook her head. "No. He knew Timothy was home, and his love and worry for the boy is genuine."

She lapsed into silence, and Grissom wished he knew how to bring her smile back. "You know," he began, then let the words trail hoping she would take the bait. And when she did, he gave her a mild, nonchalant shrug. "There's…at least one other suspect no one's yet brought up."

"Who?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with interest.

His shoulder lifted again. "Well, Buddy the cat, of course."

Her face softened with a grudging smile, and struggling to keep a straight face he pinched his lips tightly together. "What, you don't believe it's possible? I've three words for you: Bates, Michigan, 2005."

Her smile broadened, and she gave a slow disbelieving shake of the head. The story had made the national news all over, and a heated debate had ensued at the lab about the stupidity of mankind. Joseph Stanton who was preparing a meal in his kitchen was shot in the stomach when his cat knocked the 9mm semiautomatic handgun he had put down on the counter nearby onto the floor, discharging the weapon.

"You never did successfully explain to me how the cat managed to pull the trigger," Sara said, drawing him back to the present. "Even if the gun was loaded and cocked and with the safety off, it wouldn't have just discharged when dropped." Her hand lifted, fending off potential arguments before he'd even formulated them. "The firing pin block would have inhibited the firing pin, preventing accidental discharge. The poor creature was made a scapegoat for his owner's stupidity, and you know it."

Grissom loved it when she got riled up like that. "Party pooper," he said after a beat.

Her eyes narrowed at him playfully. "The _purr_-fect crime?" she said, and burst out laughing.

He shook his head in disbelief, but wanting to prolong the carefree mood a while longer couldn't help his next quip. "A felin-y?"

Laughing, he held out his hand to her, and reaching for it she gave it a squeeze. Seeing her – them – like this gave him hope that in time they would be happy again.

The knock on glass that ensued broke the spell. Grissom turned his head to the door and Russell standing there. Discreetly he let go of Sara's hand, but she kept a hold of it.

"Is this a private party?" Russell asked, "Or can anyone join in?"

"Gil has a theory," Sara said, grinning as she flicked her eyes over to him, "You want to hear it?"

Before he could respond he caught a glimpse of Brass, striding over to them with purpose. He glanced at Sara, but her eyes were already fixed on the approaching captain. Her expression had lost all trace of levity.

"Sorry to break up the party," Brass said, his tone sombre, "But I finally got a lead on the right George Cooper. Took me a little while though, Sidle, you sure threw me a curve ball with that one."

Grissom turned to Sara with a frown and they exchanged puzzled looks. "How do you mean?" she asked Brass.

"You ready for this?" A wry smirk crept onto the detective's face. "George Cooper...oh, you're going to like it!" He gave his head a shake. "Well, George is in fact...Geor_gina_. _She_ obtained a legal name change when she turned eighteen. And when I went round she wasn't home."

Grissom's brow shot up as the ramifications of what Brass had said sank in. "Well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he said, and gave a mild shrug when Sara fixed him with a narrowed stare.


	16. Chapter 16

"Well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Grissom said, and gave a mild shrug when Sara fixed him with a narrowed stare.

"How about a cuckold husband?" Brass countered, deadpan, refocusing everyone's attention on him at once. One of his brows was raised enquiringly, and Grissom stole a glance at Sara, checking for her reaction, but her expression betrayed none of the emotion he knew she was feeling.

"You think Carver knew?" Russell asked, his gaze sweeping over his colleagues.

"What, that his wife was a lesbian?"

DB winced at Brass's turn of phrase. "Well, I was thinking more along the lines of this latest…infidelity, but either gives him pretty good motive." He let out a long breath and turned to Sara. "What about you, Sara? You were there too. You think he fed us a pack of lies?"

Sara gave a shrug of her shoulders, then pushed to her feet and leaned against the edge of the table next to Grissom. "I don't know," she said with a weary sigh and a shake of the head, and in a show of support Grissom touched his right hand to her lower back. She turned toward him. "I was so sure he wasn't involved, but now I don't know."

"If he did know he sure fooled me," Brass said, scoffing at the thought as he began to pace.

Russell gave a nod. "And me."

A brooding silence descended over the group. "Tell them about the email," Grissom told Sara after a beat, and giving a start she nodded at him before retrieving the email dated May 9th. "When I was trawling through Melinda's emails," she explained, "I found one which I think she – George – wrote."

"You think?"

Sara explained that the unsigned email had been sent from a different account three days before the murder, then stood back while, wearing matching puzzled expressions, Russell and Brass stepped forward to read the email.

"'Mel, I can't do this anymore'," DB read out loud in a monotonous voice. "'I have tried. I have tried so hard, but it's too much. What you're asking is too much. I'm miserable. I can't be on my own, not like that, not like you can. I miss you, babe, but if you won't come back to me...you leave me no choice. Sorry.'" He stood back and scratching the back of his head let out a long breath. "That's it? That's all you got?"

Sara gave a nod. "We can't even tell for sure where it was sent from."

"So the husband could have sent it," Brass argued, and Sara nodded again.

"Anyone could have," she said resignedly. "Software was used to hide the IP address."

"But the tone of the letter strongly suggests the email is from George," Grissom piped up, with a supportive glance and smile at his wife, a smile Sara returned. "And if Melinda took it as a threat to her life then it explains why she moved Carver's gun from its upstairs location to the laundry room."

"So what you're telling me is that we're back to square one, but with another suspect in the mix," Brass said with growing frustration. "We're going to need a lot more than that to make a case stick."

"What do we know about this George?" Russell asked the detective in a calming tone, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "I mean beside the affair, and the fact that she changed her name. Is she a viable suspect?"

Brass didn't reply. His eyes flicked over at Grissom and he reached inside his jacket pocket for his notebook. Grissom watched with a puzzled frown as he flipped it open. Something about the captain's edgy demeanour sent alarm bells ringing. George Cooper, he repeated to himself several times as though the name should mean something to him, but it didn't.

"George Cooper, twenty-eight. Single," Brass read in a dull voice, "No priors. Well, none that we know of anyway," he added in a scoff, and Grissom's frown deepened. "She lives in the Winchester area and drives a 2011 Mercedes-Benz SLK 250. Diamond white," he added, and looked up, "BOLO's out on the car. Shouldn't be long before someone spots it." He paused, and Grissom could tell by the nervous twitching of his lips that there was more to it.

"Jim?" The cautious tone in Grissom's voice made Sara turn her head toward him.

Brass sighed, then flipped his notebook shut and fixed his gaze on Grissom. "She's…Stanley Cohen's daughter," he said at last, his shoulder rising almost apologetically.

"_Judge_ Stanley Cohen?" Sara exclaimed with disbelief, her head snapping back to Brass.

"_Retired_ Judge Stanley Cohen," Grissom amended in a sigh.

"And for good reasons," Sara said. "Shit! What are the chances that should happen?"

"Oh, come on!" Russell snapped, "I hate it when people do that! Who is this…_judge_?"

Brass let out a breath. "Well, let's just say that our paths have crossed in the past and not in the best of circumstance."

"Judge Cohen is a crooked, blackmailing bastard," Sara said, glancing at Grissom. "He tried to get one of us to contaminate evidence in an on-going case. The judge was arrested and subsequently _made _to retire, something he holds the lab responsible for."

"And?" Russell exclaimed. "How does this concern us now?"

"Russell is right," Grissom said calmly, "It doesn't." His hand lifted to his face and he rubbed at his cheek. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We still don't know George is involved at all."

"Well, if she is," Brass argued, "then we'd better make damn sure we do everything by the book, or she'll walk."

"At the moment," Sara cut in, "All she is is a person of interest we would like to talk to because she knew the victim. Nothing more."

Russell nodded. "So we're going to tread carefully. And if the evidence leads us to her being the killer then that's where we'll go." He fixed Brass with a stern stare. "And for your information, Jim, at this lab we always do everything by the book."

Brass let out a long breath. "I know that. I'm sorry." He wiped his hand over his face. "It's just…it's been a long couple of days and Judge Cohen isn't someone I'm relishing meeting again."

"Let's cross that bridge if we get to it, shall we?" Grissom said, and everyone nodded.

Russell lifted up the sheets of paper he'd been holding, waving them about. "We got no meaningful trace on any of the four guns," he said. "They were clean, well-oiled, looked after and stored. As far as prints are concerned Mandy didn't lift as much as a smudge on any of the three guns the vic kept a the club."

"She probably wiped them down after use," Grissom said, to which Russell nodded.

"The husband's Smith & Wesson on the other hand tells a different story," Russell went on, his eyes on the print-out, "Mandy lifted a lot of prints off the box it was kept in, the magazine and the gun itself. She was able to isolate Timothy's prints - all over the box, inside and out, and on the gun itself - his father's prints and the victim's too. There's some overlapping though but Mandy's doing her best. More interestingly maybe she found an as yet unidentified partial on the slide of the gun. No hits in AFIS."

"Maybe the killer's," Sara offered hopefully.

"Provided it's the murder weapon," Grissom said, earning himself nods from both Brass and Russell.

"Wait a minute," Sara said. "Didn't Carver say last night that he'd never even handled the gun?"

Russell raised his index finger to his mouth in a thoughtful pose, and nodded. "Yes, he did. And if he lied about that, what else did he lie about?" He gave a sigh, then checked his watch. "I think it's time we paid Bobby a visit. See what he's got for us." He swept his eyes over his colleagues and jerked his head toward the doorway. "You all coming?"

Grissom was following Sara out when Brass caught him by the arm. When he stopped Sara looked back over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed questioningly. "I won't be a second," he told her in a smile.

Her eyes flicked over to Brass hesitantly and then back to him and she nodded before following Russell out to Ballistics.

"How's she doing?" Brass asked, his voice soft with concern.

Grissom watched as Sara disappeared round the corner before refocusing on the detective whose worry was etched on his face. "She's…doing okay."

"She…walked out of the interview with Carver last night."

Grissom gave a nod. "I know. She told me."

Brass held his gaze for a moment as though waiting for him to elaborate before simply nodding his head when Grissom kept silent. "That timeline of yours," he then said, "How soon until you can give us a definite TOD?"

Grissom glanced over to the corridor to make sure they were out of earshot and shrugged his reply. "All I can say for sure is that the murder took place before Tuesday." His shoulders lifted again. His hand came up, scratching the underside of his chin. "I'm going to need another day at least, Jim. I'm sorry."

Brass gave a firm nod. "You still think the boy did it?"

Grissom's eyes lowered. He was silent for several seconds as he considered his answer. "Yeah, I do," he said, bringing his saddened gaze up.

"You spoke to Sara about it?"

"No, not yet. I was going to do it earlier, and then_ this_ came up."

Brass made a face. "You think Cohen's going to be a problem?"

"Not if his daughter is innocent."

"I don't like it, Gil," Brass said in a sigh, and wiped his hand over his face, "This case…I can't get my head round it. None of the evidence we got points in any one direction."

"I know."

Brass took in then let out a long breath. "It's good that you're here for Sara," he said, and fell silent and the two men stared at each other for a moment before Brass jerked his head toward the door. "Come on," he said, lifting his hand to the top of Grissom's arm and patting warmly, "Let's see what Dawson's got for us. Maybe it's good news."

Grissom made a dubious sound, but followed Brass to the ballistics lab nonetheless. When they got there Sara was bent over a comparison microscope. Her left hand was holding her hair back while her right hand focused the lens, while Russell stood aside, glasses in hand, waiting for his turn. Bobby stood directly behind them, looking earnest and enthusiastic as he spoke. The scene gave him pause, and he felt his heart tighten in his chest.

"I used one of the bullets from the magazine to test fire the gun," Bobby was saying, "and you can see for yourself it's an exact match to the bullet Doctor Robbins sent up from autopsy. Not only that, but they also came from the same batch."

Grissom felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the news. Catching sight of him and Brass standing at the doorway the tech paused long enough to smile and nod his greeting. Sara straightened up from the microscope and stepping aside to let Russell take a look caught Grissom's eye. He gave her a soft smile that instead of appeasing her look of concern had the opposite effect.

"Melinda was shot with her husband's Smith & Wesson," she told him flatly, needlessly, and all he could do was to nod his head grimly.

"I didn't find any spare ammunition anywhere in the house," Russell said, looking up from the microscope.

"This the gun the victim kept at her house, right?" Bobby asked, adding when he got a nod from both Russell and Sara, "Then I'd say she kept a round chambered and that's why there's no bullets missing from the magazine." His shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. "That's what I do. As my old man used to say, an empty gun is just a piece of pipe."

"So, what you're saying," Brass said in a frown, "is that whoever fired the gun didn't bother loading the magazine."

Bobby nodded. "That's right, and since all twelve bullets in the magazine are from the same batch it's unlikely they've been replaced. Also, if the magazine was inserted when the shot was fired the next bullet would have loaded."

Sara's expression noticeably darkened at the news. Her eyes met Grissom's, but she looked away quickly, badly hiding her distress. She had to be coming round to his way of thinking now; Timothy's prints on the murder weapon? His heart broke for her and he sighed, wanting nothing more than to reach out, take her in his arms and make it all go away.

Grissom could already see it in his head. Timothy saw the box on a high shelf in the laundry room. Curious, he pulled a chair maybe, or used stepladders, or even climbed up, Spider-Man like, to take a closer look. He could imagine his little heart beating faster at the find. Wanting to emulate his mother maybe, or just because he wanted to play with it, he got the gun out of the box, not bothering with the magazine, and took it outside.

How was the six-year-old to know there was a live round in the chamber? At some point he must have switched the safety off – provided it wasn't off in the first place – and then pressed the trigger as he had seen his mother do countless times without consequence, accidentally shooting her in the head.

The sound of the gunshot would have been deafening, the recoil painful. Timothy would have panicked, picked up the spent casing and put the gun back in the box and on the shelf exactly as he had found it, hoping his mother would never notice. Maybe he didn't realise he'd shot her until afterwards. Maybe he still didn't know he had shot his mother, maybe in his mind the two events were unrelated.

Was Timothy left-handed, he wondered suddenly? Holding the barrel of the gun with his right hand when he'd fired it would certainly explain the linear burn mark in the palm of that hand. Grissom gave a sigh and his head a shake, then tuned back into the conversation. His eyes sought Sara's. She was watching him closely.

"Melinda knew about guns," she told him in a forlorn whisper that stopped the rest of the conversation dead in its tracks, "Why would she keep a round in the chamber?"

"She'd only just gotten the email," he replied softly, addressing her as if they were alone in the room. "Maybe she thought that by keeping the gun downstairs and at the ready she could get to it more quickly and protect herself and Timothy." His eyes flicked over to Russell who was watching Sara with the same quiet concern he was. Brass's cell rang and pulling it out of his pocket the detective stepped out of the lab.

Sara's head was shaking. "No," she said. Grissom dipped his head to meet her gaze but she wouldn't meet his. "I think the killer had been in the house recently and knew about the gun. Picked up the casing afterwards and returned the gun where he'd found it."

"_He_?" Grissom questioned.

Sara looked up suddenly. "I say we go question Carver again, except this time we put the pressure on him, call him out on all his lies."

"Sara," he interjected quietly, but before he could go further Brass came back inside the lab, pocketing his cell. He was looking agitated, his body twitching with nervous energy.

"That was despatch," he said quickly. "George Cooper's Merc's been found. Long term parking at McCarran. Apparently it's been there since Monday."

"She's on a_ trip_?" Russell exclaimed with disbelief.

Grissom's heartbeat quickened at the new turn of events. Could Carver have shot his wife, then his wife's mistress and afterwards dumped the car with the body in it? Is this why Timothy wasn't talking; because he'd seen it happen and was protecting his father?

"Not necessarily," he replied, "but we're going to need to check with the airlines, just to make sure." He turned to Brass. "Your guys opened the trunk?"

"I told them to wait until _we_ got there," Brass replied, straight-faced. Sara gave a quiet scoff while DB's brow rose in amused interest. Bobby wasn't so subtle; his chuckle at Grissom's slip unrestrained. Head shaking Brass turned on his heels, headed out.

"I'll be along in a minute," Sara told Russell who while grabbing the results sheet Bobby was holding out fixed Grissom with an uncertain stare. Refocusing on Sara the supervisor nodded his head then followed Brass out.

Grissom caught Sara's eye and shrugged his apology. The fond, almost wistful look on her face as she watched him gave him pause. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to take over. I just…"

Her smile widened. "Don't worry about it. Russell won't."

He gave her a nod, and his smile fading flicked his eyes down. "Sara—"

"I'm okay," she said, pre-empting his next words.

Her hand lifted to his forearm, stroking warmly, and he looked up. The smile he flashed her was on the stiff side. His mouth opened then shut as he searched for the right words. "Listen, Sara, there's still a chance that..." he paused and swallowed, then forced a bigger smile.

"I know what you're thinking," she said with a small smile, and the sudden sadness in her eyes told her that indeed she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He took her hands in his. "Honey, I don't think he meant to. I think it was an accident. Maybe he found the gun and wanted to play with it…" the words died on his lips and again he swallowed the constriction in his throat. "I'm worried you―"

She pulled her right hand out of his grasp and lifted it, covering his mouth. "There's a still a chance that he didn't do it. Two chances, in fact, and we're close to catching a break, I can feel it." Smiling, she leaned in toward him and kissed him softly on the lips, cutting his argument short. "I'm being careful," she said, "I promise. I won't be long."

His hand came up, cupping her cheek, and he nodded. "Okay," he said, resigned, "I'll be here waiting."

Her eyes flicked over to Bobby busying himself with the microscope and with one last parting smile and stroke of his cheek she turned her back on him. Grissom watched with a heavy heart as she hurried down the corridor before completely disappearing out of sight. Heaving a sigh, he looked over his shoulder and found Bobby staring at him with a wide grin on his face.

"So, boss," the tech said, crossing his arms over his chest, "you like being back?"

The corners of Grissom's mouth turned up in a faint smile. "You know I'm not boss anymore, right?"

Bobby chuckled. "It's good to have you back," he said, pushing off the workstation to clasp a friendly hand on his shoulder, "Boss."


	17. Chapter 17

Sara was feeling tired but strangely upbeat as she walked down the corridor to the garage where Grissom had set up camp. She liked having him around at work again. Their interaction earlier as she'd picked his brains about the case had only served to remind her how much she loved working with him and how much she had missed it.

She had hoped that when Catherine had left CSI to work for the FBI a few months back he might have expressed an interest in applying for the position, but he hadn't, and she'd been too proud to ask him outright about it when she was the reason he had left in the first place. Maybe he had thought it a step back when he'd made himself a new career, one she knew he enjoyed greatly.

Strands of classical music floated up to her, becoming louder the nearer she got. Not classical music, she thought to herself, a wistful smile forming as Bizet's Carmen began to sing of love, but opera. Grissom had said he would wait for her return before heading home, and now she knew that he'd been true to his word.

Her step slowed down a fraction as she listened, her eyes closing briefly as happy memories of a magical night out courtesy of Grissom's bosses at the Sorbonne filled her mind. His words, spoken the previous evening, came back to her and with them a fresh pang of sadness. _Remembering the good times helps me get through the bad ones_, he'd said, and she realised then that he shouldn't have to live in the past to get through the present. She blew out a long breath, then plastering a smile on her face made herself push on.

Grissom stood with his back to her, bent over a microscope, and she stopped at the threshold to watch him. His body was swaying slightly, in time with the music, and after a few moments she noticed his shoulders were shaking as if he was laughing. Then he looked up and shook his head before turning it toward the main body of the garage and the charred remains of a pick-up truck stationed there. The broad, almost giddy smile on his profiled face made her pause and stare.

Whatever was taking place was bringing him joy, and it showed. He spoke then. She saw his lips move, but from her vantage point she couldn't make out what he said, and she laughed to herself, thinking that he was singing along with the French, to himself maybe or to the insects he was rearing. Carmen's Habanera was in its closing stages, and Sara decided now would be a good time to make her presence known. She was sneaking up to him when she heard familiar laughter coming from under the truck. Her smile widening, she turned her head toward the sound and noticed two sneakered-feet sticking out from under the front.

Noiselessly, she closed the distance to him and draping her arms around him from behind pressed the side of her face into his shoulder. She felt his body briefly tense up in surprise then relax, and he turned his head and a smile toward her.

"Hey," he said, and straightening up turned inside her arms so they faced each other. His right hand came up to her face and his smile broadening he leaned in for a kiss which she gladly returned. Then, he gave a sudden start, his happy expression morphing into one of awkwardness as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have, and quickly he pulled back from her to reach over to the computer, switching the music off with a tap of the keys. "You're back early," he said, his tone a little guarded.

"Hi, Sar," Greg called before she could reply. He rolled himself out from under the truck, and Sara flicked her eyes over to him, watching as he got to his feet and pulled off oily latex gloves. He was looking his buoyant, happy self. "Grissom was educating me on the art of French loving," he said, straight-faced, "Contrasting Carmen's story to that of the dancers of the Moulin Rouge."

Sara gave a snort of laughter, then fixed Grissom with a questioning look.

"I was doing nothing of the sort," he denied earnestly. Eyes narrowed with concern he stared back at her, and she knew he was searching her face for a negative reaction to the music, or worse, she thought, to sharing memories of Paris with Greg. When he saw none, his face visibly relaxed and his smile returning he lifted his shoulder. "I was merely explaining to him that—"

Greg ambled over, wiping his hands on a cloth. "He was telling me about the time you two lovebirds went to the Op-é-ra de Paris," he cut in in his best French accent, and Sara's gaze snapped back to Greg expectantly, eager to hear what Grissom had said about it, "I really wish I'd been there with the two of you. Sounds like one of these once-in-a-lifetime experiences."

"It was," Sara said, "One of the best nights of my life."

"You've never really said much about your time in Paris," Greg went on musingly. "I mean, I'd love to hear about it."

Sara could tell Grissom was watching her, and swallowing her discomfort she made herself smile at Greg. "Paris was…" her smile faded slightly, and she glanced at Grissom who reached for her hand and squeezed it lovingly, supportively, "…is beautiful," she said, looking straight at Grissom, and he smiled. And then glancing back at Greg, she added, "I'll tell you more about it some other time maybe."

"So," Grissom said after a pregnant pause where Greg had stared back at her a little uncertainly, "George Cooper's Merc? Where is it?"

"Still in situ," she replied, turning toward her husband, grateful for the change of tack, "We didn't touch it." Grissom's face registered a look of surprise and she shrugged. "There was nothing suspicious about it. No smell of decomp coming from the trunk. No broken taillight that would have warranted further inspection, nothing. The inside was empty, spotless. We had no reasons to take a look, or tow the car back to the lab."

Grissom's smile was wry. "I'm sure that if she wasn't Judge Cohen's daughter, Brass would have found a reason to take a closer look," he said, nodding his understanding.

"Well," Sara said with a wince, "we kind of did anyway."

Grissom's smile was knowing. "Go on."

"The outside of the car was fair game, right? So, I did a little dusting, and we recovered quite a few prints." Grissom's mouth opened, and she lifted her hand toward him, cutting short his first objection. "I know," she said, with a glance at Greg watching the exchange with interest, "they could be anybody's, but just in case I've asked Mandy to compare them to the partial she got on the slide of Carver's gun."

"Even a match would be inconclusive," he warned.

"I know."

"And it certainly wouldn't be admissible in court."

"I know that too." Grissom gave a nod of his head, and she was grateful he didn't push the point further. "At least, now we know where she is, where she's been since last Monday."

"Monday?" Grissom repeated, his brow rising in interest.

Sara nodded. "Brass checked with the airlines. She flew out of McCarran to Fort Lauderdale on the 9.55 am flight with Spirit Airlines. She's due back tonight on the 10.19 pm. Brass will be waiting for her at arrivals."

Grissom made a thoughtful face and scratched the side of his nose. "So I guess we wait until then," he said.

Sara gave another nod. "As frustrating as it is, that's all there is to do."

"She might decide not to return, of course," Greg said in a musing tone from under the hood of the pickup truck. Grissom and Sara slowly turned their heads toward him, fixing him with matching narrowed stares. Greg's shoulder rose defensively. "I mean…if she is guilty."

"Thank you," Sara said, the sarcasm unmistaken in her tone, "For pointing out the obvious."

"You're very welcome," Greg replied, grinning and bowing to her. "Mind you…think of it that way. There might be a free trip to the gold coast for one of us."

"One of _us_?" Sara said, her eyebrow rising.

Greg's shoulder lifted. "I'm prepared to sacrifice myself for the cause," he said, matter-of-fact. "You get Paris, I get Fort Lauderdale."

Sara laughed. "I don't doubt it for one second." She turned her attention to Grissom who was watching Greg with a fond smile on his face. "Brass is holding off questioning Carver until later this afternoon when he's got his head round everything," she said, and he refocused on her.

"How do you feel about that?"

His question gave her pause. "I'll live with it. With Timothy still in the hospital Brass doesn't think Carver's a flight risk, and I tend to agree. He's got a man tracking his movement just in case."

Grissom gave her a thoughtful nod. "Good idea."

"He also wants to…look into George's affairs a little more closely. See what company she keeps and where she could have met Melinda. All under the radar, of course, in case words get back to the judge. He's bound to have kept up with old cop friends from way back."

Grissom nodded again, then flicked his gaze to Greg. "Greg was saying Nick's back tonight. That'll take some of the pressure off everyone."

Sara's expression darkened. "You're not thinking of letting him finish what you've started, are you?"

"I'm sure he's more than capable," he replied with a frown at her change of tone, "But no. He won't be taking over. I'm determined to see this through. Besides, I'm almost done here." He glanced down. "No, I―I was just thinking that it would be nice to see him in action. See how much of an entomologist he's become."

Sara's face softened with relief. Grissom brought his gaze back up to her face and they shared a smile. Greg's cell chirped, startling them, and the young CSI pulled it out of his coveralls pocket. "It's Hodges," he said, waving the device in the air, "he's got my results. I got to go." With a parting wave Greg sauntered out of the garage and Sara refocused on Grissom.

"So, I was thinking," she said, "if you're done…maybe we could…clock out early and go home."

Grissom registered a look of surprise. "Now?" he exclaimed with disbelief as he checked the time on his watch. "But the end of shift's not for another few hours."

Sara narrowed playful eyes at him. "And?" she defended in a mild tone, "you're not the boss of me." She made a pout. "But for the record, I've already cleared it with him."

Grissom's expression shifted as he studied her. She could see suspicion in his kind blue eyes, suspicion of her motives for wanting to go home, and concern.

Smiling, she lifted her hand to his chest and kept it there. "Gil," she said, her tone betraying her growing exasperation, "I'm going home. I'm going to take a long, hot bath. I've earned it. You can stay here, or come with. It's up to you."

His face softened with a grudging smile, and he stroked the back of his hand to her cheek. "I'm coming with," he said resolutely, "Just give me a few minutes to shut everything down."

"You got it."

"Sara, Grissom," Russell called, entering the garage. Grissom dropped his hand from her face while she turned toward the doorway. "I was looking for you. I just got a call from Brass. Carver's at the hospital. Timothy's having a bad night. Apparently he was fine after we left him, settled down with little fuss for the night. But then he woke up kicking and screaming the place down, calling for his mother, and they had to sedate him again."

Sara felt her shoulders slump as she let out a long breath. "Poor little boy," she said in a gasp. She felt Grissom's hand on her shoulder, warm and supportive, and she looked up to give him a small smile. "He must have had a nightmare."

"I can't begin to imagine what he must have seen to make him react like that," Russell said.

"I can," Sara said in a whisper, before she could censor herself, and Grissom's hand increased its comforting pressure on her shoulder.

Russell's eyes narrowed with interest, and unable to hold his quietly probing gaze Sara looked away uncomfortably. "There's absolutely no doubt in my mind that his psychological trauma goes way beyond simply finding his mother dead," he then said, and after a pregnant pause Grissom concurred.

"You say his father's with him?" he then asked the supervisor.

"Yes."

"Do you think that's wise? What if Timothy's keeping quiet to protect him?"

Sara looked up to find both men watching her closely. Russell's shoulder rose. "Innocent until proven guilty, remember?" he replied, and sighed. "Anyway, we need to think of the boy's needs in all this, and right now he needs his father. He's all he's got left." There was a pause. Russell gave his head a shake and refocusing on Sara plastered a smile on his face. "You headed home?"

Forcing a small smile Sara nodded her head.

"Good," Russell said. "I'll let you know as soon as Brass is ready to interview Carver. But I can't imagine it'll be until early evening at the earliest. You want in on that one too, I expect?"

Sara glanced at Grissom and nodded her head.

"Okay." Russell turned on his heels, then whipped back round toward them. "Oh, and Grissom, before you leave, you mind if I have a quick word?"

After a slight pause Grissom nodded. Then he glanced at her, his shoulders lifting a little sheepishly, and she realised he was most probably thinking Russell would reprimand him for taking over earlier and challenging his authority in front of Bobby. Somehow she knew differently.

"It's okay," Sara said, suddenly feeling very tired and weary, "You can do it now. I want to go talk to Mandy before I leave anyway." Her gaze drifted to Grissom. "I'll see you in the break room in ten?"

Watchful eyes on Russell, Grissom nodded his head absently, and she turned her back on them. "Russell, I know what this is about," she heard Grissom say just as she was leaving. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to step on your toes the way I did earlier. It's just that—"

"Old habits die hard? I get it," Russell replied in his usual easy manner.

Sara stepped out, stopping just outside the entrance within earshot but out of sight.

"This is your old turf," Russell was now saying, "and I can see how people still respect and look up to you. Don't worry about it. I won't." He paused, and Sara leaned her ear in a little closer to the doorway. "No, that's not what it's about. I—I..."

There was another pause and Sara's heartbeat quickened in trepidation. What if Russell wanted to talk to Grissom about her and her state of mind? What if he thought she'd mentioned their conversation in the car the previous day to Grissom and wanted to talk about that, or worse apologise for it? What would Grissom say? What would he think?

That she couldn't talk to him about the miscarriage and the void in her life, but that she could talk to her boss about it? A man, a stranger she'd only known a few months? Not that she had, of course, but Russell had a way about him that made her want to confide in him. Sara's eyes dropped to her feet. She thought about walking away, but found herself rooted to the spot, waiting with bated breath for Russell's next words.

"Brass said you'd need another day?" he said, and Sara exhaled a long breath of relief.

"I'm close," Grissom replied.

"And?" Russell asked expectantly.

Grissom let out a breath. "You'll know how soon as I know for certain," he said. "I'm sorry I can't be more specific, but inaccurate predictions would only lead you the wrong way in your investigation."

There was another break in the conversation, and Sara could well imagine both men sizing each other up. Relieved, she was pushing off the wall to leave when Russell spoke again. She paused.

"This case," he said quietly, and Sara's brow pinched as she concentrated hard on hearing what was being said, "it seems to be one of those cases that get to Sara."

"Cases involving children get to all of us," Grissom replied after a beat, his tone neutral.

"Still," Russell insisted, "This one seems to have hit closer to home." When Grissom made no reply he added, "I'm worried about her. I―"

"She's a professional," she heard Grissom cut in with conviction. "She'll be fine." His voice sounded more distant to her now as though he had turned his back on Russell, putting an end to their conversation.

Just then Greg came out of the Trace lab, whistling to the tune of Carmen and taking a right turn in her direction. His gaze was intent on the report he was reading, but Sara knew her eavesdropping had come to an end. With a final glance toward the garage she headed for the print lab.

Grissom was in the break room chatting to Finn when fifteen minutes later she joined his side. "You're ready?" he asked, immediately ending his conversation with Finn.

Sara smiled, then nodded her head, and after bidding Finn good night they left, Grissom draping an arm over her shoulders. "I've always wanted to do that," he said, squeezing her to his side and pressing a kiss into her hair, and she laughed. "It's nice to be able to, finally."

They drove home in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Grissom didn't mention his talk with Russell and Sara didn't ask either. He was taking a right turn into their street when he next spoke.

"Why don't you get the bath ready while I make a start on breakfast?" he said, and then without waiting for a reply he asked, "Do we have any eggs, or does it have to be oatmeal?"

Sara's mouth twisted with a smile at his playful tone. When she turned toward him, he had his eyes on the road but his lips were twitching with the flicker of a smile. "We have eggs," she said.

"Bread?"

"That too."

He looked over at her, one eyebrow cocked in surprise. "Fresh?"

"It depends on your definition of the word," she said after a beat.

He laughed. "And milk?"

She nodded her head. "And milk."

"So, in this case I'm thinking pain perdu à la Grissom."

"With extra sugar on top?"

Sara's cell rang, cutting short his reply and their banter. With a worried glance over at him she reached for her purse on the back seat and rummaged inside for her phone. "DB," she told him with a weary sigh.

"Brass just called," Russell said after she had greeted him, "He's decided to interview Carver sooner rather than later."

Sara's gaze had drifted to Grissom as Russell spoke, and she watched as he pulled up into their driveway next to her Prius and cut the engine.

"What changed his mind?" she asked with surprise.

"Said he had some new intel. That he wanted to question him before Timothy was released from the hospital. You still want in on the interview?"

Sara looked at the house, then at Grissom again, disappointment written all over her features. Without prompting, Grissom restarted the engine and putting the car in gear pulled out of the drive, headed back the way they'd just come.

"I'm on my way," she told Russell, "I'll see you at PD."

Putting her phone away, she turned to Grissom and placed her hand on his on the steering wheel. "Gil, you don't have to do that," she said. "I can drive myself."

He took his eyes off the road long enough to reply, "I'm coming with you, Sara, and that's that."


	18. Chapter 18

It was another beautiful day, with just a few wisps of cloud in an otherwise perfect sky, and Grissom wished they could have spent it together – or part of it at least – behind a closed door away from the case and the heartache associated with it. In an ideal world he'd take the phone off the hook and lock the door, shutting out work and the outside world. They wouldn't have to do much, just relax and forget about their life and their woes for a few hours. The word 'harmony' came to his mind, and sadly lately there hadn't been much of that between them.

Idly, he glanced over at Sara who was staring through the passenger side window at the red mountains looming tall and imposing in the distance. She looked strangely calm and serene, considering their destination and the purpose of their journey. Brass must have uncovered new evidence incriminating Carver – why else bring forward the interrogation when Timothy was so vulnerable, and that fact didn't bode well for anyone, least of all Sara. Whatever the outcome, this case would bring no winner, no closure, he was certain of it.

Wanting to prolong this peaceful moment between them Grissom drove deliberately slowly. Seeing a stop light ahead he eased off the accelerator. "Sara," he said as the light changed to red and he stopped, "after this case is over I want us to go on a trip." He waited until she'd turned a puzzled expression to him to add, "I want us to spend some quality time together. Just the two of us."

"And Hank?"

He smiled. "And Hank."

"We don't have to go away to do that," she said, "We can spend time together at home."

He threw her a sideways glance. She was staring straight ahead of her, looking a little melancholy all of a sudden. From the corner of his eye he noticed the lights turn to green and he pulled away. "I'd like for us to go away from here," he insisted in a gentle tone, sensing her reticence, "Just for a few days."

"I'd have thought you'd be fed up with being on the road all the time."

His shoulder lifted in non-reply and disappointed he returned his attention to the road. He wished that putting an end to his travelling would solve their problems, but sadly he feared quite the opposite. Being away from her for long periods of time was tough, but it beat being apart from her altogether.

"What about the counselling?" she asked after a beat, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Have you changed your mind about it?"

He flicked his gaze over at her. "No, I haven't," he replied evenly, "but I thought we could start afterwards. I thought we could leave the phones and the laptop behind and go back to basics; spend some time with each other without distractions and interruptions."

"Like breakfast just now?" she asked, and the wistfulness in her tone made him smile.

He indicated for a right turn which he negotiated before turning toward her and replying, "Yes, like breakfast, and your bath." His lips twitched into a wider smile. "I was looking forward to that too. And I know it's selfish of me and double standard after what I put you through – put _us _through – when I was working at CSI, but…"

He let the words drift off into a rueful shrug, then checked his mirror and slowing down signalled left as he changed lanes to take the turn across the traffic to PD. He waited until a couple of cars had driven past, then pulled into the car lot, searching for a free space.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, as after parking he cut the engine.

A brow rose. A playful smile formed, and he turned toward her. "Aside from breakfast?"

Her face lit up with a wide dancing smile, momentarily dissipating the ever-present sadness in her gaze. "Yes. Aside from breakfast."

His shoulder lifting he shifted on the seat until he faced her. "Al said we could use his cabin in Rufus Cove if we wanted it."

Her beautiful smile vanished instantly. "You spoke to Al about our problems?"

"No," he denied, surprised by her reaction. "He spoke to me about them – or rather _at _me. I thought you'd told him, confided in him maybe."

Sara shook her head. "I didn't, but he's been asking questions. I'd like that," she added after a pause. "Going back to basics, I mean. You, me, Hank and the wilderness, sounds like just what we need." She gave a little laugh, then pinched her lips to stifle it.

"What?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

"We could try canoeing again," she said.

He made a dubious sound. "Or maybe not," he said in a soft chuckle, pleased that she hadn't rejected his offer outright.

She picked up his hand resting on his lap. "I missed you, Gil," she said, looking up, and then stared at him and smiled, "when you were away. And with everything that's happened since I picked you up from the airport I don't think I took the time to tell you."

His face softened with love. "I missed you too," he said, then opened an arm to her and she leaned forward, meeting him halfway for a kiss and a warm hug.

The loud rapping of knuckles on the passenger side window made them jump and they pulled back, turning toward it. DB stood nearby with his back to them, hands in his pants pockets as he swayed on the balls of his feet, and despite liking the guy Grissom was getting fed up with him and his constant interrupting. It was like Russell knew exactly which moments to pick and spoil. Grissom took the keys out of the ignition and was about to let himself out when Sara put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Let's do it," she said, when he looked over his shoulder at her, "the trip. I'm tired of all the interruptions too."

Smiling, Grissom gave her a nod. "I look forward to it." His gaze shifted to DB beyond her shoulder. "Come on," he then said, "let's see what Brass's got."

"Sorry to have cut your plans short," DB said, with a look encompassing the two of them as they stepped out of the car.

Grissom and Sara shared a look and a smile. "You spoke to Brass since you called me?" she asked.

DB shook his head. "What I told you is what he told me. But I feel the wind's finally changed direction. You coming along?" he asked Grissom as hands in jacket pockets Sara joined his side.

Sara turned toward him, and he flicked a questioning look in her direction. She smiled, and shifting his gaze back to Russell he gave a nod. Silently, they walked to Brass's office, DB first and Sara and Grissom side by side behind him. Brass was on the phone and the trio stopped at the open door. Brass quickly wound up the call, then beckoned them in, briefly catching Grissom's eye as he did so. If he was surprised by the ex-CSI's presence there he didn't let on.

"Valerie Mendes is head of security at Ceasars," Brass said without preamble. "She's one of Melinda's shooting partners at the club. They've known each other ever since Melinda joined, struck up a friendship right away apparently. Oh, and before you ask; they weren't involved romantically. I asked."

"How come she didn't come forward when the victim first went missing?" DB asked.

Brass shrugged. "Apparently, Melinda hadn't been coming to the club so regularly lately. Valerie said she'd left a couple of phone messages, but hadn't heard back."

"We can check that when we get the records," Sara said.

"Anyway, she's not a suspect," Brass said, "and we have no reasons to doubt what she told me."

"Which is?" Russell said.

"Carver knew about his wife's…sexual predilections. From what Valerie said, he also knew about George. _She_ also shoots at the range – quite the markswoman, I'm told. Competes all over the country, which incidentally is where she was at all of last week. Carver marched up to the club six months or so ago and confronted his wife with it. Made a scene."

"Made himself look a fool, more like," DB said.

"And caused Melinda to file for divorce," Grissom piped up.

Brass opened his right hand out, acquiescing. "Which led me to wonder…"

"If he lied about that and he lied about the gun, what else did he lie about?" Russell said.

"Exactly," Brass said.

Grissom's eyes were on Sara who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the exchange. He searched her face for signs of distress but her mask was in place and it betrayed none.

"Anyway, his brief should be here now," Brass went on and pushing to his feet began gathering sheets scattered all over his desk into a pile which he then put into a file. He looked up and motioned that he was ready, then file in hand headed out of the office directly to the interrogation room. Russell followed Brass inside the room while Grissom and Sara stopped at the door.

"I'm going to watch from the observation room," Grissom said, and Sara nodded. She turned toward the open room and then back toward him, reluctant to go in. "It's okay for you to sit this one out," he offered gently. "Why don't you watch from out here with me?"

Sara took in a long breath and released it slowly. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I need to do this. I need to see this through." She forced a tight smile. "I'll be fine."

With no choice but to trust that she would be, Grissom nodded his head. He took her hand and squeezed it briefly, then stepped aside to let the uniformed officer that had been watching Carver out. Sara went in, closing the door behind her, and he stood there, staring at the door, for a few seconds. By the time he took up his place behind the two-way mirror Brass was almost done with the introductions. Carver sat next to his attorney across the table from Brass and Russell while Sara leant against the wall, facing him.

"Why am I here?" Carver asked. "The officer who escorted me wouldn't tell me anything."

"We have some new information pertaining to your wife's murder which we would like to put to you," Brass replied, in his customary no-nonsense tone.

Carver's brow rose. "You found her killer?" he exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock.

"We think we have," Brass answered, deadpan, "Yes."

Carver looked around the room, focusing on each individual face as though they held the answer. "Oh my god," he gasped suddenly. "Who?"

Brass levelled a cool stare at him. "We'll get to that in a moment, but first I have a few questions for you."

Carver stared at the captain for a moment before nodding his head. "I'll help whichever way I can."

Brass shared a look with DB, then opened the file in front of him and took a moment to peruse the documents. Grissom knew the move was meant to unnerve the suspect, not acquaint himself with the details of the case. Brass looked up. His face was blank, betraying nothing of his thoughts or feelings. "What can you tell us about George Cooper?" he asked.

Carver's eyes flicked over to his attorney. "Who?"

"George Cooper," Brass repeated, keeping an even tone. "Don't bother denying you don't know who she is because we know differently."

Carver swallowed. His gaze averted to his hands neatly folded on the table, and he fingered his wedding ring. Grissom's gaze drifted over to Sara. Her gaze was on Carver, cold and detached, but he could see from the slight tremor in her hands that she was far from being so.

"But maybe you erased George from your memory," Brass went on, and Grissom refocused his perspective, "like you seem to have erased a lot of things." Brass waited until Carver glanced up in affront to deliver his coup de grâce. "She was your wife's lover, wasn't she?"

Carver's eyes shot downward. He gulped, but didn't bother to deny the fact. Brass glanced over at Russell who swiftly took his cue.

"Since we last spoke, we established that your wife was killed with your gun, Mr Carver," he said, pushing his glasses back up on his nose, "_Your_ Smith & Wesson." He picked up the top sheet in Brass's file, which he passed over to Carver and his attorney. "We recovered the gun in its original case in the house. We were able to isolate three separate sets of prints on the gun itself, the case and magazine – the victim's, your son's and yours."

"And how do you explain that when you told us that you've never handled the gun?" Sara exclaimed heatedly, taking a step toward the table, visibly stealing the words out of Russell's mouth.

Carver gave a start, his gaze snapping to her face, eyes narrowed in shocked disbelief. His mouth opened then shut. He looked over at his attorney who just stared back at him blankly, and then shrugged his shoulders at Sara. "I mean, I _have_ touched the gun before – obviously," he said, "It was a gift from my wife. What I meant to say was that I'd never _fired_ it."

Sara pulled a dubious face, then looked over at Brass and moved back to her spot against the wall. Carver's eyes widened suddenly, as though a thought had just occurred, then lowered to the results sheet in front of his attorney. "May I?" he asked, reaching a shaky left hand to it without waiting for a reply, and studied the results on the page.

Brass was shaking his head in disbelief. "So, this is how we think it went down," he said. "You dropped Timothy off at the house like you said, Saturday evening at around five pm. Melinda was on the phone; she was arguing, we think with George."

"You think?" the attorney questioned.

"We're still waiting on phone records," DB said, "but we're confident they'll back that up."

Throughout all this, Grissom kept one eye on Carver and the other on his wife. Something about Carver's demeanour didn't sit right with him. He had a distant, detached look about his face, as though his body was in the room, but his mind was working overtime somewhere else.

"Afterwards you challenged her about George, didn't you?" Brass continued, and the crease on Carver's brow intensified. "What you didn't know was that the two of them were broken up. It got heated. Maybe it even came to blows. Melinda got the gun from the house, threatened you with it. She told you to leave, but you didn't. She made you look a fool, didn't she? At the club, with your friends... Everyone knew you couldn't keep her satisfied."

A look of blind panic crossed Carver's face and he turned toward his counsel, looking straight in Grissom's direction. Tears filled his eyes.

"Captain Brass, that's out of order," the attorney argued.

"So you grabbed the gun off her," Brass went on, undeterred by the interruption or Carver's unravelling. "And maybe you didn't mean to kill her, but the fact of the matter is that you did."

Carver swallowed hard, and then gave slow, continuous nods of his head, and Grissom immediately knew that Brass had worn down his shaky defence. His eyes zoomed in on Sara and he could tell from the sudden shine in her eyes that she knew it too – Carver had killed his wife. And yet, despite the overwhelming evidence Grissom couldn't make himself believe that that was true.

"You're right," Carver said in a quiet voice, at once refocusing Grissom. His eyes were cast down to the table and when he looked up tears were coursing down his cheeks. He wiped at them. "I killed Melinda. I was jealous and angry…and she kept pushing and pushing…"

Sara's head was shaking. She was looking down to her lap, her gaze unfocused, unseeing, and he knew she was reliving what had happened to her a lifetime ago when her mother had admitted to killing her father. "You bastard," she muttered under her breath, and looked up. The dark, desolate look in her eyes sent shivers down Grissom's spine.

"Sara, no," he called in a whisper. His hand twitched up, wanting to reach out to her through the two-way glass, wanting to stop her but it was too late.

Her gaze narrowed and she stepped forward, placing both hands on the table, palms down in front of her, and leaned down toward Carver. Her expression was tense with anger, the veins in her neck taut with barely supressed hatred. "You…" she clamped her jaw shut to stifle her insult, "…bastard. You killed her in front of Timmy and then you let him all alone in that house with his dead mother."

Carver's eyes filled again, and he turned his face away in shame. Without warning, Sara launched herself at him and grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket hauled him up to his feet. The chair fell back with a loud scrape on the tiled floor.

The attorney jumped to his feet, desperately looking at Brass and Russell to intervene. Carver didn't resist or try to protect himself; he simply stood there with his eyes cast down, broken. "You're despicable," she spat and tightened her grip on his collar. "You've destroyed his life, his future, any chance at happiness. How is he going to cope with one parent dead and the other in jail? He was innocent in all this, and you've made him a victim!"

By then, both Brass and Russell had come round the table. Brass was gently prising her hands off Carver's collar while Russell took hold of her shoulders, pulling her off the suspect. Brass had a quiet word to her ear that Grissom couldn't make out but the look the captain tossed at the mirror told him everything there was to know. Sara fixed Brass with a cold, dark stare, then twisted her arms free and stormed out of the room.

When Grissom got to her she was leaning against the glass wall across the way from the interrogation room, her eyes clenched tightly shut, breathing hard. He stopped, unsure whether he should go to her or give her time to calm and cool off.

He hated having to act so cautious and restrained around her, scared that one step in the wrong direction would have catastrophic consequences. He'd seen her like this before, angry and confused, teetering on the edge, and when he'd tried to be there for her she had inexorably pushed him away, too damn stubborn and independent to accept his help and support for what it was. He wasn't going to let her have her way this time.

She opened her eyes as he approached then tore her gaze away but not before he saw the depth of her distress in them. She was holding it together, but barely. Stopping in front of her, Grissom opened his arms and wrapped them tightly around her so she wouldn't try to wriggle out of his embrace. He dropped his head to her shoulder and after a few seconds he felt her relax in his arms and then shake as she began to cry.

"We'll make sure Timothy's well cared for," he said, and ducked his head down to meet her gaze, and when she gave him a nod he steered her away from the main thoroughfare back to the lobby and out to the car. She didn't resist. She just let herself be led, leaning on him for support, limp and frail in his arms.

He would take her home. He would lock the door and take the phone off the hook, shutting the world out. He would run a bath for her and cook her pain perdu for breakfast, with extra sugar on the top the way she liked it. For a few hours it would just be the two of them, and Hank.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: Today, 8th of November, is the four-year anniversary of my joining this wonderful site. Two days later I was posting my first Lady Heather/Grissom story post 9.05 _Leave Out All the Rest_, and I haven't looked back. Four years, can you believe it? Almost as long as what Grissom's been gone. Where has the time gone?

Some of you have been reading and reviewing and adding my stories to your favourite list from the start, and without you I wouldn't still be writing now. So, I owe you all a big thank you because I enjoy it tremendously.

I've been told I've not issued tissue warnings when they've been needed – so I'm issuing one now, and it's probably _not_ going to be needed. ;-) This is a long chapter because I couldn't find a place to break it up; I hope you enjoy.

* * *

No sooner had Sara buckled up than she sank into the seat of his car, head lolling to the side as she closed her eyes. Grissom watched her, eyes soft with love and concern for her wellbeing, the look of profound wretchedness and resignation etched on her face tugging at his heart. What could he say that wouldn't be platitudes? He gave his head a shake, then refocused on his surroundings and backed out of the parking space, headed home.

"Where are you going?" she exclaimed as he turned left out of the PD.

"Home," he replied, glancing over at her, baffled.

Sara was sitting up in her seat now, straining against the belt, staring in the opposite direction from where they were headed. She looked almost panicked. "But I thought you said…" She gave a sigh, then whipped her head around to him. "We can't go home," she said, alarm creeping into her voice.

"Well, we're not going back to CSI," he cut in decisively, puzzled by her behaviour. "Sara, shift's over."

Her head was shaking. "You need to take me to the hospital. I need to see Timothy, make sure he's alright."

Grissom let out a long breath. "He's as alright as can be in the circumstance, Sara. They're taking good care of him there."

"He's all alone, Gil. He's got no one left, no one to look out for him, to look after him."

"That's not your responsibility," he argued with a trace of impatience he regretted straightaway. He knew he sounded callous but in his eyes Sara's needs came before Timothy's, and she needed to go home, away from it all, and rest. He took a breath, checking his tone. "Sara, we can make sure he's looked after properly and that his needs are met, but―"

"What do you expect me to do?" she cut in heatedly. "Just forget about him and walk away? Leave him to fend for himself like I had to do? I had a rough time growing up, Gil, and it didn't stop when my mother killed my father. It's not a pretty world out there for kids like us."

He felt a pang of sadness hit his heart. "I know, sweetheart." His tone was gentle, immediately contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"He's only six years old," she insisted, her voice breaking, and sniffed, "Six years old. He doesn't understand!"

"Okay," Grissom said in a resigned sigh, easing a glance in her direction before taking a right turn at the next intersection. "We'll go and make sure he's okay. Then we go home, Sara. I mean it; you're not staying, not in the state you're in." Sara's cell began to ring but he ignored it. "You'd do him more harm than good."

A frown of annoyance formed on Sara's face. She shoved her hand in her pocket, pulling out her cell and silencing it. Her features relaxing she gave him a nod in agreement of his offer, and with a small smile he took his hand off the steering wheel, turning it palm up toward her. Her eyes dropped to his hand and she lifted hers to it, entwining their fingers. "Thank you," she said in a choked whisper.

"We can check on him later tonight," he said softly, wanting to appease her further, "before shift, and when we know for sure Brass's charged his father."

His words gave her pause, and she pulled her hand out of his. "You still don't believe Carver did it, do you?" she stated desolately.

Grissom returned his hand to the wheel and his eyes on the road, and shrugged. "I don't know, Sara. I simply don't know."

"Gil?" she uttered, and paused. "I need you to be straight with me. Please."

This time, it was his phone that interrupted them. He retrieved it from his inner jacket pocket with a sigh before glancing at the display and turning the device off. When he refocused on her, she was watching him, her face pinched in that earnest frown he'd always found so endearing. "He had motive," he said, going back to their earlier conversation, his shoulder rising in a helpless manner, "opportunity and the means to do it."

"The holy trinity," she surmised.

"And his prints on the murder weapon," he added with a nod.

"But?"

Again, he sighed. "Did you notice how his whole…demeanour changed after Russell mentioned whose fingerprints were on the gun? How he never once questioned his son's being there? I think he confessed to protect him, Sara. Maybe Timothy said something to him, or he just inferred it – I don't know."

"What a mess," she said. "I don't know what's worse; for Carver to have killed his wife and Timothy to find himself in the system like I did, or for him to have done it."

"I do," he thought, but kept the words to himself. "Remember we still got George," he said, aiming for a hopeful tone.

She returned his kindness with a smile. "And your timeline."

He gave a nod. "When's DNA back on the gun?"

"Not for another day."

Nodding, he stopped at a red light. "Regardless of the outcome," he said, "remember that you're not alone, that you don't have to shoulder everything by yourself."

"I'll try," she said, her small smile widening when he winked at her.

Fifteen minutes later they were stepping off the elevator onto the paediatric ward. It wasn't visiting hours, not by a long shot, but after explaining who they were they were allowed to go and see Timothy, albeit briefly. Sara had a moment of hesitation before she pulled the curtain to his cubicle back, but then plastered a wobbly smile on her face and went in. Grissom stood a little awkwardly at the end of the bed while Sara moved to Timothy's bedside, watching as a nurse fussed over him.

"He's just gone to sleep," she told them in a soft, caring smile, "Poor little boy."

Sara returned the nurse's smile. "We won't stay long," she said, "Or wake him."

The nurse nodded and then left them to it. Sara took a step closer, her hand instinctively lifting to his face before withdrawing shyly. Grissom watched her stare at the little boy with a mixture of sadness and longing in her eyes. She appeared calmer now that she had seen for herself that Timothy was all right and he understood then that the bond she shared with him was very real and that allowing her to come was the right thing to do. She would have made a wonderful mother, he thought suddenly, his heart filling with sorrow; she had so much love to give a child, and sadly no child to give it to. Giving his head a brisk shake he refocused teary eyes to her.

A few minutes later, she turned a hopeful face toward him and they left. Grissom had his hand in the small of her back, guiding her toward the bank of elevators when he spied Russell at the nurses' station, talking to the nurse that had been with Timothy when they'd arrived. Russell looked up at that moment, meeting Grissom's gaze dead on. The supervisor's face was drawn and closed off, looking most unfriendly. Sara must have seen him too because he felt her slow down a fraction before she picked up her pace again.

Russell quickly strode up to them, blocking their way to the elevators so that Sara had no choice but stop. "Care to tell me what that was all about?" he demanded in a loud whisper, darkened gaze encompassing the two of them.

Sara levelled a stare at him and briefly Grissom wondered whether she would tell him. But at the last moment she averted her eyes with a shake of her head before brushing past him. Russell reached out his hand, holding her back by the arm. Sara stopped but didn't turn.

"You might want to know Carver's not pressing charges," he said, his tone clipped.

Sara gave a nod, then pulled her arm free of his grasp and called the elevators.

Russell turned to Grissom, bewilderment written all over his features. "Anything you wish to add?"

Grissom flicked his gaze to Sara's back then back to Russell. "No," he said, "I'm sorry."

Russell stared at Grissom with disbelief then spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He let out a long sigh, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sara…how can I put it? Well, she gets passionate about the cases and generally it's a good thing. On occasion though, she lets her emotion get ahead of her and her temper flares up, but never like this." He slipped his glasses back on, his eyes drifting over to Sara still waiting for an elevator to show, and when she didn't take the bait refocused them on Grissom. "This is a side of her I haven't seen before and that I don't like very much. And frankly it scares the hell out of me."

Grissom sighed, his eyes also flicking over to his wife. "There's nothing I can tell you," he said, "except that she's sorry and that it won't happen again."

"You sound just like her lawyer," Russell remarked in a scoff, and shook his head. "Ah, come on," he insisted, his voice rising in frustration, "I need to know what the deal is here - if only so that we don't find ourselves in this situation again. I can't have her threatening suspects―" At that moment the left elevator doors pinged open and Sara stepped inside the empty cab, cutting his rant short, Grissom following suit with a mildly apologetic shrug.

"You shouldn't have apologised for me," she said, turning toward him as the door slid shut on a disconcerted Russell.

"I know how important your work is to you," he retorted, the ghost of a smile playing round the edges of his mouth.

"Thank you," she said with a smile as she slipped her hand into his, "For not telling him about my past."

Grissom gave a grave nod. "It's not my place to do so." He waited until the doors opened onto the ground floor and they got off to add, "But maybe_ you _should."

"No," she said categorically, "I don't want him to know."

They stepped out of the hospital into the bright sunshine. "Why not?" he asked, squinting as he tried to remember where he'd parked the car, "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Sara. Besides, it would help him understand. It helped me."

His words gave her pause, but she shook her head. "I'm not the same person I was then. I got it under control, well, most of the time," she amended with a twist of her lips, and shrugged. "I'll apologise to him tonight. He'll be fine."

He put his hand to her elbow, silently guiding her toward the car, and they crossed one car lot over to the next one. "Come on," he then said, unlocking the car and opening the door for her, "let's go home. I'll run you that bath and cook us breakfast. Then we can have that little uninterrupted time we talked about."

Hank was awaiting their return behind the door, eager for some company and a walk. Grissom had other ideas. Hurriedly, he opened the back door, letting a disgruntled Hank out into the yard, while dead on her feet Sara made a beeline for the bathroom. When he joined her there her gaze was downcast and unfocused as she unbuttoned her blouse, hands shaking and fumbling with each button until she pulled at them with frustration.

Grissom stepped forward and took her hands in his, stilling them. She looked up, meeting his kind, yet firm gaze dead on. "Let me do it," he said, and she gave him a wan nod.

He took over, gently easing the remaining buttons out of their holes until the blouse hung open, revealing the white lace of her bra underneath. The breath catching in his throat, he glanced up and watching her face slipped his hands under, soft fingers skimming over her breasts as he slid the blouse off her shoulders. Reaching back, he unhooked her bra, and holding his gaze she let it drop to the ground where the blouse had fallen.

His eyes lowered to her chest, his hand tentatively moving to her stomach of its own accord and stroking the soft, pale skin there. Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he looked up to find her with her eyes closed and lips pinched. The two lone tears coursing down the side of her face made his heart fill with love and longing, and a crushing wave of despair. He knew his gesture would have reminded her of Jasmine and maybe, he pondered, that wasn't such a bad thing.

Leaning over, he twisted the knob to close the plug in the tub and turned on the faucets until he was happy with the temperature. He reached for the bottle of lavender bubble bath, poured a generous amount under the running water and watched as it frothed, foam forming that would hopefully help soothe some of her pain.

"Thank you," she said, and turning around he offered her small smile. She was sitting on the toilet lid, reaching down to unlace her boots, looking up toward him.

Grissom kneeled down to help her out of them, then out of her socks and pants, then watched as she stood up and with a sigh slipped into the water while the bath was still filling. "Take all the time you need," he said, pushing to his feet, "I'm…going to make a start on breakfast."

Sara's eyes were closed, and she gave him a weak nod in reply. He watched her for a moment from the doorway before heading to the kitchen with a heavy heart. He let Hank back in, then changed his water, refilled his bowl with food, but the dog was in his feet, following his every move, yelping and eager for a proper walk and some attention. Grissom was rummaging inside cupboards, gathering the ingredients he needed to make breakfast – a can of pears in syrup, bread, sugar, ground cinnamon, ground nutmeg, vanilla extract, butter, milk and eggs – when he dropped an egg to the wooden floor.

He gave a sigh of annoyance. "I can't take you for a walk now," he snapped as he reached for a cloth to clean up the mess, "I'm sorry. The backyard's the best I can do." He picked up the broken eggshells before adding a little more contritely, "Later maybe, but I can't leave Sara on her own." He paused and lifted his gaze toward the dog who was watching him mournfully. "You understand, don't you?"

Hank inclined his head as though he was considering his reply and Grissom gave a chuckle before finishing mopping up and finally making a start on breakfast. He was scooping half pears out of the pan onto a plate when Sara joined him in the kitchen.

"The smell of your cooking got me out of the tub," she said, and smiled when he looked up. She wore her old flowery robe, the one he'd gifted her for Christmas a lifetime ago, tied tightly around her thin waist. Her hair was still wet from the bath, combed back away from her face. "Never smells or tastes as good when I try it," she mused, her smile becoming shy as he stared.

"That's because you don't know the secret ingredient," he said, matter-of-fact as he returned his attention to the stove.

She laughed. "I've watched you cook pain perdu lots of times, and I know there is no secret ingredient."

"It wouldn't be _secret_ if you knew what it was," he said, bringing the skillet and plate of pears to the kitchen island he'd already set for two, and she narrowed playful eyes at him. "Voilà. With extra sugar the way Madame likes it. Come on, sit down or it'll get cold."

He watched as slowly she did as bid, then shared out the food. "Poached pears?" she said, surprised as she picked up her fork.

"Canned," he replied. "They were at the far back of the cupboard and out of date by a few months, but we should be fine."

With a smile at his teasing, Sara cut into her bread and pears and brought the forkful to her mouth. He could only watch her, pleased to see that she still had some appetite. "Eat," she said while chewing, a teasing smile tugging at her lips, "or it'll get cold."

With a shake of the head Grissom sat down on the stool next to her and began to eat. They didn't talk, they didn't need to, simply enjoyed each other's company and a rare moment of peace and harmony. Like her, he was hungrier than he'd realised and soon both plates were empty, much to Hank's chagrin. Sara gathered those and the cutlery into the skillet, and together they cleared the space. Grissom was returning the jug of milk to the fridge when he felt a pair of arms around his waist and Sara's face pressing against his back.

"I'm going to bed," she said, her voice muffled, and pulled back, "I'm beat."

"I won't be a minute," he said, turning and watching wistfully as she walked out of the room.

When he finished in the bathroom Sara wasn't sitting up in bed any more, staring blindly at the flickering images of some daytime sitcom on the television with Hank lying by her side. Clad only in his pyjama bottoms he went looking for her, following her trail to the spare room. The door was open, and his brow creasing with puzzlement he went in before stopping dead, frozen to the spot. There she was, sat at the desk with her hands on her lap, completely still and staring intently at a small storage cardboard box in front of her.

His heartbeat quickened as his eyes zoomed in on the box he recognised all too well. The white box which bore the generic Hôpitaux de Paris stamp and the words Bébé Grissom handwritten by the midwife that had looked after Sara on the lid, contained everything they had left of Jasmine and had disappeared from their Paris apartment when Sara had left to come back to Vegas. He'd never laid eyes on it since, or had had the strength to ask her about it. Maybe it held the key to them finally healing.

"Sara," he called in a fraught whisper, his voice at once pleading and warning, and swallowed.

She looked up, and he was relieved to see that although she looked sad she wasn't crying. Her voice was low, but strangely clear of emotion as she spoke. "Do you know how many times I have sat here, staring at the box, without ever being able to open it?"

Despite already knowing the answer, Grissom shook his head, then covered the distance to her, stopping just within reach.

"Never," she said, her eyes filling with tears.

His hand fell to her shoulder, squeezing warmly, and blinking she mustered a smile for him.

"Do you think about her?" she then asked in a choked whisper.

He blew out a slow breath, willing himself to stay strong. There was a long pause, and then he nodded at her. "Sometimes," he said, and cleared the tightness in his throat. "Sometimes I catch myself watching a little girl in the street or in a shop, at the park, and I wonder. I wonder what she would be like. And yet, I have a clear picture of her in my head."

"Me too," she said.

Her eyes had turned back to the box but she was smiling through her tears so he made himself speak and say some of the things he'd wanted to say to her for so long, but had never been able to. "I imagine her bright and happy, a ray of sunshine in our life…" He placed his hand under her chin, gently coaxing her face round, and smiled. "Or I look at you, and I think of how smart she would be, how beautiful, and I—I…" the words caught and he swallowed. His eyes flicked downward as he confessed, "I miss her. I miss what we could have had."

Sara's eyes clenched shut, her face averting at the pain his words caused.

"It wasn't your fault she died," he said, and crouching down took her hands in his. "I know you blame yourself, but I don't. You couldn't have done anything differently."

"I know," she said, and lifted her hand to pat his cheek, "But it doesn't make it less painful."

He gave her a nod, then glanced at the box. "Do you want to open it?" he asked tentatively.

Wiping at her eyes she shook her head. "No. I'm not ready, not yet."

Faintly, he smiled his understanding. "It's…" he began, then stopped and shrugged, "It's good that we're…finally talking about it. I mean…it's hard, but…"

He pinched his lips to stop the quaver and she brought her hands to the back of his head, pulling him to her. Closing his eyes he cradled the side of his face to her lap, seeking and finding solace in her closeness. After a while he shifted. His arms came up, wrapping tightly around her waist, inadvertently pulling her robe open under the sash and he was surprised to see that she wore nothing underneath. His heart suddenly beating in his mouth, he looked up at her, then slid a tentative hand under the fabric and began stroking light fingers to her skin.

When she closed her eyes and he felt her legs move apart he brought his mouth to her inner thigh and paused briefly to let the rush of desire wash over him before brushing his lips along the sensitive skin in slow, lingering kisses. Her scent was intoxicating. Her hands came up to his shoulders, the back of his head, holding him to her as she sank deeper into his touch and let out a series of small, breathless gasps. When he came up for air she was staring down at him, eyes brimming with love and tears.

Slowly, he pushed to his feet, took her by the hand and wordlessly they padded their way to the bed. Hank was ushered out, the television silenced, the lights dimmed. They took their time making love as they realised for the first time in a long time, they were truly united. Truly one. Truly enveloped in selfless, soothing, tender and familiar touches, which brought pleasure, comfort and security.


	20. Chapter 20

Sara awoke in the warm cocoon of her husband's arms and to the feel of his hot breaths on her skin. He lay directly behind her, with one leg draped over hers and his arm wrapped protectively, almost possessively, around her chest. His hand hung, limply cupping her naked breast under the loose cotton sheet covering them. Immediately a wave of contentment and intense wellbeing washed over her, warmth that spread all through her body, soon reigniting the smouldering embers left over from their lovemaking earlier.

She hadn't felt this relaxed, this sated, in a long time, which was strange really, considering everything they had going on in their lives at the moment. Letting out a soft contented breath, she took his hand resting on her chest and nuzzling it to her face snuggled herself deeper into him, seeking more of his warmth, of his love and strength. This was where she wanted to be, always, and for a moment she found she was able to push aside the feelings of fear and anxiety that were an intrinsic part of her everyday life these days, and just be.

After a while, he began to stir. She noticed gentle, involuntary muscle twitches at first, then a change in his breathing pattern followed by a deep sigh before he gently pulled her to him in a tighter embrace. Nuzzling his face into her neck, he took in a deep breath through his nose and when he slowly released it she felt the lazy smile on his lips brush the back of her shoulder. Her own lips pulling into a smile, she opened her eyes.

"I've missed waking up like this," he whispered, voice still thick with sleep, and she felt a shiver of pleasure travel down her spine at the vibrating of his lips against her skin. He grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it tighter over them. "You're cold?"

Slowly Sara shook her head. "No. I'm good. I'm…enjoying the moment."

"Me too," he said, pressing his lips against the nape of her neck and trailing the kiss down the length of her shoulder blade.

Sara repressed another shiver, then lifted his hand she was still cradling to her mouth and kissed its palm. She could feel him, twitching and pressing softly against her lower back as he continued with his gentle awakening of her senses and it filled her with confidence to know that even after what she'd put him through she was still as desired, loved and revered as ever. She closed her eyes and let herself melt into his touch and be lost in that moment.

Gently, he pulled his hand out of her grasp, moving it to her breast, cupping, fondling and stroking over the hardening nipple, while his mouth licked and kissed as it glided back up to her shoulder, her neck and chin, until needing and craving more from him she turned her face and then the rest of her body to him, seeking and meeting his fervour with abandon. Their eyes met in the dim sunlight filtering in through the blinds and without breaking contact, she moved to straddle him, trapping him under the weight of her body.

Whereas their lovemaking earlier had been a slow and considerate rediscovery of each other this time it was urgent and passionate, a tangle of sheets and limbs though no less loving and intimate. And afterwards as they lay breathless in each other's arms, dozing and basking in the afterglow, Sara felt like she used to before their world had so tragically fallen apart. However fleeting the feeling would be, at that moment in time she felt…happy.

There was comfort to be found from the knowledge that despite it all she could still feel that way, that he could still make her feel that way. She made herself a promise then. The promise that after the case was solved, irrespective of its outcome, she would stop running from her past, from her pain, and allow herself to begin to heal. Grissom and her marriage to him was all she had that truly mattered, and she'd lost sight of that.

"I'm looking forward to going away," she said, and kissed his chest before turning her face up toward his, "and to a lot more of this."

Grissom had his eyes closed. He was smiling. "How long have you got off?" he asked, opening his eyes.

She pushed off his chest onto an elbow. "I booked a week, starting Friday. Why?"

"I was just wondering."

"You got commitments?" she asked, suddenly unsure.

"No," he replied softly. "I told you I called Jake and postponed my visit. I'm all yours for that week."

Sara felt a pang of sadness at the thought that after that he'd be back on the road, but kept it to herself. Again, she regretted not asking him to come back when Catherine had left.

"I got an email from my mother, that's all," he went on, breaking into her thoughts. "She was wondering when I was getting back."

Sara began to laugh. "She doesn't know you're back?"

The helpless lift of a shoulder was his only reply. "She thought maybe we could go over to hers for dinner when I got back and…I thought we could do that before we went on our trip. Make amends." When Sara's gaze narrowed at his words he added a little flippantly, "Her phrasing wasn't so...how shall I put it? It was...rather curt."

"It's nice to have you back," she said in a disbelieving chuckle. "Here and at work too."

"Yeah?" He sounded surprised.

She gave him a definite nod. "It's a little strange though," she added in a careful smile.

Shifting up into a half-sitting position against the headboard he gave her a probing look. "How so?"

She shrugged. "Well, working with Gil isn't the same as working with Grissom, and I guess it's taking a little getting used to."

He laughed. "Well, there's none of the pressure, for one. I can be more relaxed, more myself without worrying about boundaries and breaking the rules."

"I had noticed," she said in a giggle. "All the shows of affection…it's…it's―"

"It's because of Russell," he admitted in a sigh.

"Russell?" she exclaimed, surprised.

Looking sheepish, he shrugged his shoulder. "He's so…tactile, and confident with it, you know? I could never be that way with you, Sara, when I was boss."

Sara's face softened with a smile. Was it a trace of jealousy she could detect among all this uncertainty? Her hand lifted to his cheek. "Russell _is_ tactile, and in tune with his emotion, but it's purely platonic. It's just his way." She paused and watched him. "You've nothing to worry about, Gil. You know that, don't you? I mean I like the guy, but…he's not you." She paused, hoping that despite their troubles he still knew he was the only man she had ever loved, and would ever love. "He's my boss―"

"I was your boss too, remember?"

Her smile widened and reaching up she pressed her lips to his.

"I'll tone it down," he said with a twist of his mouth.

Laughing at the meekness of his tone she pulled back and shook her head. "I don't want you to tone it down. I don't want you to change anything."

Eager scratching of nails on the bedroom door made her pause and turn her head to it. The door opened and Hank ambled in, tail wagging energetically. Dropping down on to his hind legs at the foot of the bed he gave a little whimper of discontent.

"I think he's trying to tell us something," she said, laughing.

"I guess I _did_ promise," he sighed, sounding reluctant to go.

The grin on Sara's face was wide and amused. "Let's all go," she said, turning back toward Grissom. "In fact, why don't we go all the way to Desert Breeze Park? We can stop at the deli and grab some food on the way?"

Grissom's brow rose. "What? Make a picnic of it?"

"Why not? It's not like we've anything to eat here anyway. And I'm hungry. Besides, we should definitely try to enjoy some of this good weather."

The way he was looking at her made her catch her breath. "All right," he said, breaking the spell and swinging his legs out of bed, suddenly eager. "You heard the lady, Hank, the park it is. Just give us five minutes."

It was almost an hour later that they finally found their spot at the park. Grissom laid a picnic rug down on the grass and after kicking off her shoes Sara began to unpack the food and drinks they'd purchased at the Italian Deli on West Sahara. Hank, already off the leash, went foraging in nearby shrubs. She watched with a surprised smile as Grissom took off his shoes, but chose not to comment.

When he had made himself as comfortable as possible lying on an elbow on his side, she passed him the Roma sandwich and ricotta cheesecake he'd ordered. He set the dessert aside before hungrily unwrapping the sandwich and taking a half. Sitting cross-legged in front of him, Sara couldn't be happier as she pulled the lid off the container housing her Greek salad. Soon enough Hank returned, pleading for them to share before lying down nearby for a snooze.

Sara had almost polished off her food when she broke the companionable silence that had settled between them. "When's the last time we did this?" she asked quite innocently, as she brought the plastic fork to her mouth for the last time.

Grissom's expression darkened. He looked down, pausing in his chewing and wiping the corner of his mouth before slowly resuming as though biding his time before answering. Finally he brought his eyes back up to hers and she knew. Paris was the last time they had done this. The food stuck in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she said, forcing her mouthful down.

"Don't be," he said. "Our memories are bittersweet, but they're our memories. We shouldn't be scared of them, and of remembering. I think we need them to be able to heal."

Sara's eyes averted to Hank beyond him and she nodded her head. Her gaze drifted to a young couple in the distance, swinging their child by the arms between them. The little girl couldn't have been older than three or four years old. Sara could even make out faint squeals of delight. When after a minute she turned her eyes back to Grissom she found him looking over his shoulder, watching the happy scene. From where she sat she couldn't see his expression but she guessed it mirrored her own sad one.

"We could give him a home, Gil," she said, out of the blue, "A good home, a loving home."

She watched him slowly turn his head back to her. He didn't ask who she was talking about; he didn't need to. She could tell from the shocked look on his face that he knew she was referring to Timothy.

"Sara―" he pleaded, then paused and let out a sigh, thinking his words over, not wanting to reject her proposition outright and risk breaking her heart. "It won't come to that," he finally said.

Sara's eyes flicked over to the family who had turned off the main path and were now disappearing out of sight. He wasn't keen on the idea, which was understandable. How could he when he didn't know what it was like to be alone and terrified and sent away to live with strangers? She wouldn't push the issue, not now, not until she needed to, but at least she'd seeded the idea in his mind.

"You can't fill the void Jasmine left with Timothy," he added, and she refocused teary eyes on him.

"We wouldn't be doing that," she said, the words catching.

Grissom's eyes lowered; his shoulder lifted. "We could try again," he said in a barely audible whisper, not meeting her gaze.

Tears filled her eyes. It wasn't the first time he made the suggestion, but she simply couldn't face it. "I couldn't bear to lose another child, Gil. I'm sorry," she said when he looked up. "The risks are too great."

His words were tentative when after a pause he said, "There are precautions we could take this time, procedures we could try."

"None with any guarantees," she argued quietly. "You heard what the doctors said." Her shoulder rose, matter-of-fact. "I've an incompetent cervix. I can't carry a child to term."

"Sara―"

"It's okay. I may not have come to terms with losing…" Tears shone in her eyes, ready to fall, but she didn't shed them. "…Jasmine. But I've come to terms with that. Besides, I'm forty, too old to have a child now."

"And I'm fifty-five," he retorted, but not unkindly, and chuckled. "What does that make _me_?"

She sighed. "I'm sorry."

Grissom shifted on the rug, then reached out to her and they squeezed hands. "It's okay, sweetheart," he said, sitting up to pull her into a hug. "It's okay."

Sara didn't cry. She simply closed her eyes and leaned on him, allowing him to bear some of the weight of her pain. It was becoming easier to do. She felt less burdened for it, and she hoped he felt the same way. Without conferring they packed up their stuff, then set off home at a slow pace, each lost in contemplation. The closer they got to the house, the more Sara thought about the case and the little boy lying alone and helpless in the hospital bed, with a dead mother and a father in jail and no home. Fresh pain tore through her.

"I want to go see Timothy before shift," she said, turning toward Grissom as they rounded the corner into their street. "I thought maybe we could go in separate cars."

"I don't mind driving you."

"I know. It's just that…it's something I want – I need – to do alone."

Grissom slowed down his pace a fraction while he stared at her, and despite his obvious reticence gave a nod of the head. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, and she and Hank followed suit uncertainly. His eyes were cast down, but the sudden pained, troubled look on his face gave her an instant feeling of foreboding.

"What is it?" she asked hesitantly.

He looked up and held her gaze briefly. His eyes drifted to a passing car and when he indicated with his head toward their house they resumed walking. "Sara," he began tentatively, and sighed, "Before I left CSI to come be with you…I worked a case. One that'll stay with me forever, and to tell you the truth it helped seal my decision to leave all this behind."

Sara swallowed; she hadn't known that. "You never said."

He made a dismissive gesture, as if meaning there were a lot of things he didn't say. "It's the only case in my entire career I wish I hadn't solved."

They got to their house and Grissom pulled the keys out of his pocket, letting them in. Sara unclipped Hank's lead and followed Grissom to the kitchen. "What happened?" she asked softly.

"A shootout in Koreatown during a street party," he replied. He opened a cupboard, reaching for a glass which he filled with tap water. He offered it to her and when she declined drank half of it. "At first glance it looked like gangs settling scores but…it wasn't. There were two dead, a woman and her brother, mother and uncle to this little boy, Park Bang, who was ten at the time and had witnessed the shooting. Turned out he had HIV, and a tough life, and his junkie mother used him – abused him – to make money and buy drugs." His voice wavered. "You should have seen him, Sara…"

He swallowed, and the desolation in his eyes the memories conjured up broke her heart. Her hand moved to his shoulder, but she knew it would be of little comfort. "The boy did it, didn't he?" she said, suddenly understanding what he was leading to. "He shot his mother?"

"Yes, he did. Park killed his own mother because she shot dead the only man who looked out for him."

"He put an end to his own suffering too."

Grissom nodded his head. "Did he, though?" He paused, and she could see all the sadness he carried in his smile. "Sara, I'm worried about you. I can see you already care about this little boy too much. I know you identify with him, and want to shelter him from the worst of what you went through, and that's commendable. But you need to prepare yourself for the real possibility that Timothy killed his mother, and that maybe there is little we can do to help him."

Sara turned her face away. "This isn't the same thing as what happened to Park."

"Isn't it?" he asked.

"No," she said sadly. She could feel the tears rise, prickling the back of her eyes, but she held on to them. "And even if we show that Timothy shot his mother it would have to be an accident. You said it yourself, a game that went wrong."

"What if Timothy saw something between his mother and George?" he countered quietly. "Something he didn't like. Maybe George came round. Maybe they were fighting. What if he took the gun to protect his mother, aiming it at George, but shooting Melinda by mistake?"

"What about George in all this? Why would she leave? Leave him behind without calling 911?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly. We don't know."

"You're right," he conceded. "Maybe I'm jumping the gun a little - no pun intended. I just want you to be prepared, that's all. Be careful around him, and with what you say to him. Just don't make any promises to him you wouldn't be able to keep, for both your sakes."

Sara opened her mouth to argue that she knew better than do that, but he was right, of course. She would do anything to protect that little boy from more pain and suffering. She'd let one child down already, her own, and she wouldn't let it happen again. This was _her_ chance to finally make amends.


	21. Chapter 21

"I'll see you at the lab," Grissom said, one hand on Hank's collar keeping him back and the other on the front door.

She gave Hank a rub around the ears before planting a kiss on her husband's lips. "I'll be there for the start of shift," she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder, "I want to apologise to Russell."

Grissom gave her a smile. "Good," he said, "But you know, he's going to want an explanation."

Sara nodded. "I'll think of something," she said with a shrug.

The smile on Grissom's lips was very loving but also very knowing. She beeped her car unlocked and after one quick parting kiss walked over to the driver's side.

"If you need me there as back up…" he called, and she laughed.

She was about to retort that she could fight her own battles, thank you very much, when the words and her smile died on her lips. "Shit!" she muttered, stopping dead in her tracks, "That's all I needed!"

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked with concern.

Her head shaking in disbelief she brought her gaze to him and gave an empty laugh. "I've got a flat."

"Take my car," he said without hesitation, shutting the door on Hank before joining her side. "It won't take me long to change the wheel."

Sara only had a moment's hesitation. "I'd do it myself but…"

"You want to go see Timothy and not be late for shift and give DB more ammunition," he finished for her. "I honestly don't mind doing it, Sara." A smile played round the edges of his mouth. "And if I can't manage I can always call the breakdown people."

His cheerfulness was infectious. "It'd be quicker to walk."

"I'll be fine," he said in all seriousness.

"Thank you."

Grissom nodded then rushed back indoors before swiftly returning with the keys. "Just look after her, will you? She isn't as young as she looks."

Sara's lips twitched with a smile. They went through the same ritual every time she needed to drive the Mercedes. "I promise to be _very_ gentle with her."

Grissom's mouth pursed to the side in a grudging pout, and after one last regretful look at the car he dropped the keys into her opened hand. Sara gave him her brightest smile, then let herself in and swiftly backed out of their driveway. Her day with Grissom had left her buoyed up and happy and ready to face whatever life would throw at her next.

The drive to Desert Palm Hospital was uneventful. Sara was careful driving around the busy car lot, searching and finally finding a legal spot where she could park. She didn't think Grissom would take too well to having the car impounded. She was rushing indoors when she passed the hospital gift shop. She slowed down her pace, hesitating briefly before deciding to go in.

Timothy was awake when she got to him. He'd been moved into his own room with the door kept open, and was fully engrossed in watching some cartoon on the television. The sound was turned down low, but Sara soon recognised SpongeBob SquarePants and his underwater world. She waited a moment before making her presence known, her heart clenching at the overwhelming sorrow in the boy's features despite the fleeting smiles that flickered on his face as he watched the antics on the screen.

She had assured Grissom she wouldn't make Timothy any promises she couldn't keep, or even question him about his involvement in the case especially since his father or a child advocate wouldn't be present, but it didn't mean she couldn't give him a little reassurance and affection. She knew she had a lot of love to give a child, and she couldn't help thinking that maybe Timothy was the child to give it to.

"Hi, Timmy," she said in a soft, yet upbeat voice.

Timothy looked over at her, his eyes and face immediately lighting up, and Sara's somewhat tentative smile broadened at the welcome. "My daddy's here?" he exclaimed and craned his little neck to the side to look past her.

Her smile wavered as her heart sank. "No," she replied, "I'm sorry. He's not."

The little boy's hopeful expression vanished instantly. His eyes lowered to the bed as his bottom lip came out. He was trying hard to be strong and not cry.

With a sigh, Sara moved closer. "I thought I'd come and spend a little time with you, if it's okay."

Timothy didn't look up. "When's my daddy coming back?" he asked, in a small tearful voice.

Sara swallowed. She held out her hand to him but he shied away from her touch. "I don't know," she said and placed the bag of treats she'd just purchased onto the bed within his reach. "I thought I'd bring you a few things to pass the time." When Timothy showed no reaction, she looked around the bedside uncertainly before settling her eyes on the TV screen. "You like SpongeBob, do you?"

Timothy's only response was to lift a small shoulder.

SpongeBob came to an end and Sara reached for the remote, switching the sound off altogether. "I brought you a few comics and…" she reached inside the bag and pulled out a cheap plastic toy robot, suddenly wishing she'd made the time to go to a proper toy shop, "this. Do you think you could be his friend?"

The robot got Timothy's attention and he reached a hand out to it.

"Hang on," Sara said, her spirit cheering a little, "let me get it out first." She set her purse down at the foot of the bed, then tore the cardboard packaging open and swiftly passed him the four-inch red and white Transformer robot. She watched as he began to play with it, twisting the limbs this way and that way, transforming the robot into a small car. "You're good at this," she enthused, her face lighting up with pleasure, but all Timothy did was to shrug his shoulder and push the car along the edge of the bed. "Would you like me to read to you, maybe?" she tried again after a while.

He looked up, meeting her eyes briefly. "I want my daddy."

Sara tried to maintain her smile but the boy's antagonism was getting to her and her smile grew rigid. "I know you do, and I know that if he could he would be here with you."

"Where is he?"

Sara swallowed. "He's…helping us finding out what happened to your mommy." She flashed Timothy what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and then attempting to hide her own growing discomfort picked up from the bedside table the comic book she remembered Carver reading from. Idly she began flicking through it, coming to a stop at a marked-out page. "You like Spider Man, huh?" she asked, and after another non-committal shrug from the boy she pulled a chair over and began to read from where she assumed Carver had left off.

"I don't want you to read," Timothy said as soon as she started.

Taken aback by the sharp tone, Sara stopped and looked up. Timothy was watching her with narrowed eyes. "I don't mind," she said.

"You don't do it right. My daddy, he does voices."

"I can do voices too," Sara tried, but when Timothy turned away from her she closed the book, opting for a change of tactic. "You miss your daddy, don't you?"

Without looking at her the boy gave her a small nod of the head.

"And your mommy too, I'm sure."

The bottom lip came out again and Timothy nodded again. "Daddy said she's not coming back," he said, and the desolation in his voice broke Sara's heart. He looked up at her with eyes full of tears. "He said it was just him and me from now on."

Outside in the corridor there was a sudden crash of metal clattering to the ground with force. Timothy jumped out of his skin, dropping the toy he'd been clutching in his lap as his head whipped round toward the sound. His whole body was shaking as he stared at the open doorway, eyes wide with fear.

"It's okay," Sara immediately said in a soft voice, reaching out to him before jerking back her hand when he flinched at the touch of her fingers on his arm, "it's nothing to be scared of. Someone must have dropped a metal tray just outside the room."

Timothy brought terrified eyes to her, then dropped them to his lap and began crying. The noise had most probably reminded him of the gunshot that had killed his mother, Sara figured as she watched him, powerless to help. She stood up, her hand lifting to the back of his head as though wanting to pull him to her but she didn't make contact. Her eyes filled, and she clenched them tightly shut, keeping the tears, her pain and her feelings of inadequacy at bay.

A nurse came in, and Sara wiped her eyes. Immediately, the nurse took over, fussing over the little boy and speaking gentle, soothing words to him with an ease that came from years of practice. Sara felt overwhelmed, out of place and surplus to requirement. After a while Timothy calmed and spoke a few muffled words between sniffs and the nurse gave a small, kind laugh. Sara's brow creased with puzzlement.

"It's all right, pet," the nurse told Timothy, "We'll just get you cleaned up and those sheets changed in no time." She met Sara's gaze pointedly as she spoke, and finally realising what had happened Sara took her cue.

"Listen, Timmy," she said, injecting a little cheerfulness into her voice, "I'm going to go now, but I'll come back again tomorrow, okay?" She paused expectantly, and when her suggestion was greeted with a small, resigned nod she picked up her purse and left with a heavy heart. Her visit to Timothy had left her tense and shaky, and very sad and disillusioned. She didn't know what she'd been expecting but such a cold and blank reception wasn't it.

The sun was low in the sky when Sara slipped behind the wheel of Grissom's car. Conscious of the time, she quickly rummaged inside her purse for her sunglasses. In vain, and she cursed herself for leaving them at Timothy's bedside. She debated briefly whether to go back for them but under the circumstance opted not to. Certain that Grissom kept a spare pair in the glove compartment, she leaned across to pull it open and rifled through an assortment of leaflets and adverts, as well as a few CD's, searching for them. Grissom could be such a hoarder, she thought with a smile as she hurriedly emptied the content onto the passenger seat.

Coming up empty she was shoving everything back in when the title of one of the pamphlets caught her eye. Her heartbeat quickened and instantly she found herself breathless, unable to get air in or out of her lungs. Her hands began to shake, her vision blurring, and yet she could not tear her gaze away from the words. She felt cold despite the heat and she brought her arms up, wrapping them tightly around her for warmth. The best she could equate what she was feeling to was a small panic attack. She'd had them before, and she knew to let it ride and that soon enough it would pass. Self-consciously, she checked her surroundings but the world outside went on, none the wiser.

When she felt calmer she brought a trembling hand to the pile of leaflets, pulling them out of the glove box again before slowly flicking through them, transfixed. _Coping with a Late Miscarriage_, she read, _Understanding Cervical Insufficiency_, _Miscarriage Association_, _Miscarriage support_ and finally _Trying Again_. The words, painful words, brought tears to her eyes. They seemed to stand out, floating off the page, piercing straight through her heart. These weren't the kind of leaflets one just came across and picked up on any medical information stand. These were detailed and specific and destined for couples like them, men and women, _parents_, who had suffered a terrible loss.

Grissom would have had to have gone in to speak with someone and ask for the leaflets specifically. She could well imagine how tough it would have been for him to voice the words, to acknowledge what had happened in order to be able to ask for help. She could well imagine his pain and desperation, his embarrassment even, at having to talk about something so very private with a stranger. And yet he had done it. He had overcome his own foibles and anxieties and sought that help for the both of them. And that realisation shocked her more than finding the leaflets themselves.

How long had he had these stashed away in his car? They had been using his car a lot recently. Did he hope she would find them, communicating through them what he couldn't say to her directly? And why find them now? When the case and Timothy's uncertain future made her feel so raw and confused? "There are precautions we could take this time, procedures we could try," he'd said quite candidly, and evidently he had thought and read about it. Did he _really_ want to try again?

Children had never been part of their original plans, but Jasmine had put paid to all that, upturning their outlook on life and the future. She swallowed the constriction in her throat and looked down at the leaflet shaking in her hand. _Trying again_, it stated simply, as though it was the easiest thing, the expected next step, when in fact it was so very hard. Without another moment to lose she replaced all the leaflets back in their hiding place except for that one which she stuffed inside her purse.

Sara got back to CSI late. She was hurrying down the corridor, looking for Russell when she caught a glimpse of Grissom making himself a coffee in the break room. Nick was with him, and the two men were laughing as Nick talked animatedly. She stopped in her tracks just outside the room and watched their interaction with a fond, if slightly wistful, smile on her face. She wasn't the only one to have missed Grissom at the lab. While nodding at something Nick said Grissom checked his watch and then stole a glance at the doorway. A look of relief flashed across his face on seeing her there, watching, before his smile widened and he beckoned her in. Pausing in his account, Nick also turned toward her and smiled.

Plastering a bright smile on, she walked over to Nick and gave him a hug which he returned somewhat awkwardly. "Nice to have you back," she said, pulling back from him.

Nick's eyes flicked over to Grissom and then back to Sara hesitantly. "I should go away more often if that's the kind of welcome I get when I come back," he said jovially.

"I'm taking a leaf out of my husband's book," she said, her shoulder lifting as though it was no big deal.

Nick turned his attention to Grissom, his brow lifting in a silent question.

"Don't ask," Grissom said in a soft chuckle before playfully narrowing his eyes at her. And then after a pause, "You've spoken to Russell?"

Sara's expression darkened and she shook her head. "You know where he is?"

"In his office," Nick replied. "I was just with him."

Sara nodded, then turned toward the door, ready to face the music.

"I'll walk with you," Grissom offered, and Sara gave him a smile, grateful for his unconditional support. "Nick, I'll see you in the garage," he then called, "And please hands off everything until I get there."

Nick's cheerful retort of "Yes, Sir," made her shake her head in amusement as she left the break room.

"Didn't it go well with Timothy?" Grissom asked a little tentatively as he fell in step with her.

"No," she said, opting for honesty. "He's missing his parents."

"That's understandable."

She turned a sad smile to him. "He didn't want me there, Gil," she admitted in a forlorn sigh.

Grissom's arm draped over her shoulder and he pulled her to him. "Honey, I'm sorry," he said, and she was glad he kept his "But what did you expect?" to himself. "Do you want to talk about it?"

They came to a stop outside Russell's office and Sara shook her head. "I'll deal with it," she said. "I was just expecting too much too soon, I guess. I should have known better."

"You care, Sara, and that's a good thing."

The smile she gave him was unconvinced. The door to Russell's office was open, and Sara could see her boss sitting at his desk, bent over paperwork and looking serious. She took a breath; she'd put off their confrontation long enough. When she turned back toward Grissom to bid him goodbye he was craning his neck, peering over the top of her head at the inside of the office.

"Why don't you just go in and take a closer look," she said, lips twitching with amusement.

Looking a little sheepish, Grissom slowly refocused his gaze on her. "It's not changed that much, has it?" he remarked with a casual lift of his shoulder.

She pinched her lips to stifle her growing smile. "No pets, but a lot of knickknacks."

Grissom pursed his mouth at her teasing. "Be nice," he said.

She was about to retort, "To him, or you?" when Russell's booming voice stopped her.

"Come in, Sara," he called from inside the office, "Don't be shy."

Sara let out a long sigh. Grissom gave her a confident smile, then lifted his hand in a wave and began walking away. She turned back toward the door, bracing herself for a good telling off. She deserved it; she knew better than to assault a suspect. She felt like a schoolgirl who had been caught smoking and was waiting outside the principal's office to be sent home. Her eyes widened with fear at the thought; he wasn't going to send her home, was he?

She took a breath and stepped in. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said determinedly. "I went to see Timothy on my way over; see how he was doing."

Russell looked up. "And how is he doing?"

"He's missing his father."

"Well, that's to be expected." He paused and watched her expectantly.

"I'm sorry about last night too," she said, the apology coming more easily than she anticipated, "I shouldn't have taken my frustrations about the case out on Carver."

"No, you shouldn't have," he said firmly, and sighed before shaking his head and returning his attention to his work. "Apology accepted."

His reaction to her apology blindsided her, leaving her momentarily speechless. "So, where do you want me? Have we got Melinda's phone records yet?"

"I got that covered," he said, not lifting his gaze from the report he was reading.

Okay, so, he was still a little ticked off. She could live with that. "So, what do I do until Brass brings George in for questioning?"

Russell's face lit up with a wry smile. He looked up, staring at her over the top of his glasses. "So, that's why you've come to apologise. Because you want in on the interview with George?"

Sara frowned at his tone. "No. I apologised because I was out of line with Carver."

"You're lucky you're not out on your ass, Sara," he snapped, but then checked his tone, "But sadly, I can't afford to suspend you." He searched through some documents on his desk before pulling out a sheet of paper which he handed to her. "I need you to give Greg a hand on his arson case."

Sara's eyes lifted from the printout, wide and incredulous. "You're pulling me off the case?"

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't after the crap you pulled," he levelled at her calmly. "I'm not your husband; I'm not going to cover for you and I certainly won't have you assault anyone because a case isn't going the way you want it to. Not on my watch."

He leaned back in his seat, patiently waiting for her rejoinder, leaving her no choice but to take the bait. He was clever; she'd grant him that. Either she fed him something that went some way toward explaining her behaviour in the interrogation room or she could kiss goodbye to working the rest of the case, let alone being present during George's interview. The decision was simple. She dropped her gaze before raising it again, proud and determined. "I'm a foster child," she said flatly. "I grew up in the system."

There was a pause. "That must have been tough," Russell said, nodding, his voice soft and understanding, clearly compassionate, "and it goes some way towards explaining why you empathise with Timothy. But that's not all of it." He paused again, and the way he stared at her made her feel suddenly very uncomfortable, "is it?"

Sara swallowed again, then shook her head and glanced away. "No," she said, "That's not all of it." She blew out a breath and forced her eyes back to his. Telling him about her parents, the part of her past that was most private and shameful to her was bound to alter what he thought of her and their working relationship. She couldn't do it.

Russell's desk phone chose that moment to ring. Sara's eyes snapped to it, thankful for the distraction. Russell didn't immediately answer the call though, he just stared at her as if he had all the time in the world. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as he waited for her reply. When the ringing wouldn't abate he picked up, impatiently bringing the receiver to his ear. At first his eyes stayed trained on her, but then they narrowed and shifted away from her face. He listened for a maybe ten seconds before wordlessly hanging up. Then, he met her eyes with a sigh.

"That was your husband," he said, "saving your ass." He stood up and walked round the desk, headed out. "So, you're coming, or what?"

* * *

A/N: We haven't got very far to go now…I don't think. Thank you for reading those of you who still are, and please remember that reviews are loved and very much appreciated. Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and if you don't there's the weekend to look forward to…when it comes!


	22. Chapter 22

"So, you're coming, or what?" Russell asked. He didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned his back on her, striding off at a brisk pace down the corridor.

Sara stood momentarily rooted to the spot at her boss's sudden turnabout. Then giving her head a shake she took off at a trot after him. "So, what did Grissom say?" she asked, catching up with him outside DNA.

Russell didn't slow down his step. "He's got TOD."

Her eyebrows went up in surprise. This was earlier than she'd hoped. "Did he say when?"

Glancing over at her Russell shook his head. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and Sara hesitantly followed suit, turning toward him. He stared at her at length and when uncomfortable under his searching gaze she looked away he finally spoke.

"Sara," he said in a sigh, and she brought her gaze back to his face, "for you to continue working this case I need to know that I can trust you. I need to know that you're able to keep a lid on…" he waved his hand about, searching for the right words, "…your feelings – whatever they are. I need to know that you can do that. For the suspects' and the lab's sakes, but more importantly for your own." He paused and held her gaze meaningfully while he let his words sink in. Before she could reply, his shoulder rose and he sighed. His tone was softer when he added, "You're a good CSI, Sara, a _great _CSI, and I would hate to lose you. I would hate for this team to lose you. I don't want you burning out again because this case is too close to home for comfort."

So, he knew, she pondered. He knew her reasons for leaving CSI when she did – or part of them anyway. And now she couldn't help wondering what else he knew about her past. Or thought he knew.

She let out a long sigh and nodded to let him know she understood. "I appreciate your concern," she said, mustering a small smile, "but what happened this morning was a one off. I-I will apologise to Carver. You can trust me," she added after a beat, her smile broadening, "I won't let you down again."

"It's not me you let down, Sara," he retorted, then stared at her for a moment longer before finally giving her a slow nod of the head. "All right," he said, a grin breaking across his face, "then let's not make your husband wait any longer."

When they got to the garage Nick was bent over the microscope with Grissom looking on over his shoulder. They'd rigged it up to the laptop and from her vantage point Sara could just about make out the enlarged cross-section of a blow-fly.

"You have beautiful timing, Grissom," Russell said in a wry tone as he went in, "did you know that?"

Grissom turned around with a start. She could tell he had a quick retort which he kept to himself. One brow was cocked as his gaze fixed on Russell before finding Sara beyond him. His eyes were as soft as his smile but probing, and the smile she gave him seemed to alleviate some of the anxiety lurking just below the surface. One look; one brief look between them was all it took for him to know that she'd built some bridges with Russell and was still working the case, and for her to know that he'd ruled Carver out as a suspect.

"One can but try," Grissom replied just as dryly, slowly refocusing on Russell. And with a look encompassing both Russell and Sara added, "Carver lied."

Russell sighed. "You sure?" he asked.

"He's sure," Sara said in a flat tone.

His eyes flicking to her Grissom gave a quiet nod. "Taking every variable into account I was able to determine that Melinda was killed on the Sunday, more precisely between the hours of five pm and midnight."

Sara glanced at Russell who looked suitably impressed. "So you were right," she said, forlorn, turning back to Grissom, "Carver's not guilty after all."

"Well, all this shows for sure is that Carver couldn't have killed Melinda when he confessed he did," he said. "A few more hours and I'll be able to give you a more accurate estimate of time of death." He paused and studied her, and she read in his eyes what he left unsaid, that yes, he believed Carver was innocent.

"Carver's alibi in Carson City checked out," Russell piped up, and Grissom refocused on him. "We know he stopped for gas on the way too. Some place called Fernley. I'd have to check the time again, but it's what? A seven hour drive from Vegas to Carson City?"

"More like eight," Nick said, "Especially if he gassed up. I mean, he would have used the restroom, right? And stretched his legs? Maybe gotten himself a coffee and a bite to eat. I mean, that's what I would have done."

Sara's eyes were still on Grissom but he wasn't looking at her. "So, that rules Carver out as a suspect altogether," Russell said, nodding at what Nick had said. "Melinda's phone records show what we've been suspecting all along. That she _was_ on the phone with George when Carver brought Timothy home on Saturday evening. She took the call at 5.19 pm, and it lasted a little over four minutes. George called again three times, once later that evening and twice on Sunday morning, but Melinda didn't pick up. Calls went straight to voicemail."

"And conveniently we don't have her cell to check to see if George left messages," Sara said. Could George have taken Melinda's cell as well as the spent cartridge, Sara wondered, in the process eliminating all trace of the crime?

Grissom checked the time on his watch. "What time is George's plane coming in?"

"Not for another few hours," Russell replied, and then, "You let Brass know?"

Grissom shook his head. "I thought you'd want to do it."

Russell gave an approving nod. "I appreciate the courtesy." He pulled his cell out of his pocket and was swiping his fingers over the screen when he looked up at Sara. "So, what are you waiting for?" he said, eyes narrowed at her. "I think a chat to Geoffrey Carver is in order, don't you?"

Sara registered a look of surprise. Russell was putting his trust in her and she wouldn't let him – or her – down a second time. When she flicked her eyes over at Grissom he was watching her. The soft smile on his lips did nothing to hide the concern and the silent question in his eyes. She held his gaze briefly, hoping she could set his mind at rest about her state of mind now that Carver had been eliminated as suspect, before giving him a small smile and turning her back on them, headed to the locker room for her jacket and purse.

She was looking back over her shoulder, about to back out of her space when a rasp of knuckles on the driver's side window made her jump. "Sara," Russell called over the noise of the engine, "Wait up!"

Sara put the car in park and wound down the window. "What's up?" she asked with concern. "You coming?"

Russell had clearly run to catch up to her and he took a moment to catch his breath. He shook his head in reply, then lifted his shoulder in a mild shrug. "I—I wanted to apologise, about before, for probing you like that. I shouldn't have done that. It's just that…well, you know, I kind of thought we were friends and…" His shoulder lifted again and he sighed. "I wish you would tell me, that's all." He smiled. "But it was wrong of me to push you the way I did, and I'm sorry for that."

Sara stared at him, her lips twitching with a grudging smile. "Apology accepted," she said, mimicking his tone earlier in his office.

Russell chortled in good-humour. "And FYI, I never thought Carver did it. And neither did Brass. His confession this morning seemed a little too…hasty and desperate."

Sara gave a nod. "Grissom thought the same." She sighed. "I let my emotion cloud my judgement. You'd think after all these years I'd know better."

"Well, we're all guilty of that once in a while."

Sara nodded. Russell banged the side of the Denali a couple of times before stepping back. "I won't be long," she said. Then she put the car in reverse and backed out of the spot.

By the time she got to PD Carver was with Brass, signing his release papers. Sara stopped and hovering nearby waited until they had finished to make her presence known. After all the paperwork was taken care of Brass had a lengthy word with Carver and they parted company.

"Mr Carver," Sara called, quickly striding over to him before he could make his way out of PD.

Carver stopped and turned. "Is Timmy all right?" he asked with alarm.

Sara tried her most reassuring smile. "Yes," she replied, "he's fine."

A look of intense relief crossed Carver's face. "Captain Brass said that he arranged for Timmy to be kept in the hospital for another night rather than involve child services. I'm very grateful." He gave her a bright smile. "I'm headed there now."

Sara nodded. "I went to see him earlier." Her smile lost some of its shine. "He was asking after you. I told him that you were helping us with our enquiries." She let out a breath. "I'm sorry about…what happened this morning in the interview room."

Carver scoffed. "You were very quick to condemn me," he said with a trace of bitterness.

Sara's eyes averted contritely and she nodded her head. There was a pause and when she looked back at Carver he was watching her closely. "My son is the most important person in my life and I would never do anything to cause him harm or pain and suffering. Not like you implied." There was no anger in his voice, and no resentment, just profound sadness.

"I know and I'm sorry. My behaviour was totally unacceptable. I understand now why you confessed. You wanted to protect Timmy."

Carver gave her a sad smile. "Wouldn't you do the same?" he asked softly, "Wouldn't every parent?"

Sara forced down the lump in her throat. "Yes, they would," she said in a small voice, and made herself ask the question she most feared the answer to. "If you confessed it's because you thought Timmy did it, right?"

Carver sighed. "Until I saw the lab results this morning it never came to my mind to think that he could be involved in his mother's death. But how do you explain his prints on the gun?" he asked desolately.

"We thought he may have come across the box and opened it, leaving his prints all over, before replacing everything the way he had found it."

Carver shook his head. "Mel knew about guns. She knew how dangerous they are if in the wrong hands. I don't believe she'd have been so careless as to leave the gun in sight."

"We think she may have feared for hers and Timmy's safety."

Her words gave him pause. He took a breath and let it out slowly. His words came fast and anxious when he next spoke. "You've got to understand, Miss Sidle, it would have to be an accident. Timmy's a good kid―" A couple of uniformed officers walked past them causing Carver to stop mid-sentence and look about his surroundings a little uncomfortably.

"Would you like a coffee?" Sara offered, silently cursing the two officers for the interruption. "There's a vending machine round the corner."

Carver shook his head. "I just want to get out of here and get back to Timmy."

Sara smiled. "I understand."

Carver gave a nod. "Why don't you walk me to my car?" he suggested, and Sara's heartbeat quickened at the opportunity. He gave a little laugh. "Well, I just hope it's still there and that they haven't had it towed away."

Sara gave him a grateful nod. "I'll give you a ride if they have." She waited until they had exited the building to ask, "Has he spoken to you? Timmy, I mean. Has he said anything to you about what he knows or saw maybe?"

Carver let out a long sigh and shook his head. Then he indicated with his hand toward where his car was parked and they turned off in that direction. "And I haven't asked him either. I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't know if I can face what he'd have to tell me. I mean finding his mother, seeing her like that…" he closed his eyes and shook his head, as though ridding himself of the image, "it was bad enough seeing her in the morgue once she'd been cleaned up."

"You have a great kid, Mr Carver, but he's very scared."

"I know," Carver replied in a sigh. "I know." He stopped dead in his tracks, and Sara hesitantly followed suit. "You think he did it?" he asked in a whisper, meeting her eye dead on.

Sara was about to answer that, No, she didn't think Timmy had killed his mother, when she remembered her promise to Grissom and his words, spoken to her – spoken to all of them – so many times over the years. So she did the professional thing and made herself give Carver a reply that wouldn't come back to haunt her. "Aside from his prints on the gun," she said, "all the evidence we have recovered so far is circumstantial. As it stands, there is no way we can tell either way for sure."

Carver took a moment to ponder her words, then nodded his head. "Still, he was there at the time," he remarked, and Sara nodded. "You think he saw what happened, don't you? You think he knows who killed Mel?"

"Yes, I do," Sara said, holding his gaze, "and that's why he is so scared."

Carver stared at her, then nodded his head and after a moment's hesitation resumed walking. He reached into his pocket, removing a car key which he clicked. The indicator lights of a black Mitsubishi sedan ahead of them flashed a few times and Carver walked up to it. "Still there," he said, tapping the trunk lid as he slid between the parked cars to open the driver's side door.

Sara slowed down and nodded, then took a step forward until she stood by the rear door. "Mr Carver," she said, just as he was about to get in. Carver paused mid-movement with one hand on the door and the other on the steering wheel. He didn't turn toward her and she couldn't step around him to see his face. "Now that you're not a suspect any more what can you tell me about George? George Cooper."

Sara saw Carver's shoulders sag as he let out a long breath. Stealing a glance in her direction he slipped inside his car and turned toward her. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything that would help us get a measure of her."

Carver looked away. "I knew that there had been affairs over the years. I thought with men, but what do I know?" he said and Sara had to lean in closer to hear him. "George is a very beautiful woman, very confident and passionate. Young and vibrant too – everything I'm not. I think they met through the club, but I'm not sure."

"How did you find out about her?"

Carver glanced over at Sara. "A client at the clinic made a remark in passing that made me wonder. So one night I followed Mel to this restaurant out in Summerlin." He scoffed. "Summerlin, of all places. You'd think she'd have been more careful. Anyway, she was meeting George – of course I didn't know who she was at the time – but their body language, their interaction, all the little touches and looks, they spoke volume to me. When I confronted her about it she went on the defensive and then later filed for divorce. I couldn't believe it when you said they had broken up. I thought Mel was leaving me to be with her. That's why I fought her so hard over getting full custody of Timmy. The thought of him…" he threw his hands out and shook his head.

When Sara saw him pinch his lips and turn his face away she knew their talk was over. So Melinda had had a change of heart over George and Sara couldn't help wondering what had happened between the two women to cause them to break up. "I appreciate your candour, Mr Carver," she said, her hand moving to his shoulder through the open car door.

Carver nodded but didn't meet her eye. She withdrew her hand, then lowered her purse from her shoulder and rummaged inside for a business card. It was crumpled and a little torn at the edges.

"This is my card," she said, smoothing the card before handing it out to him, "with my contacts at CSI."

He glanced in her direction and took the proffered card, giving it a cursory look.

"I know you'll still be in contact with the police," she said when he tossed the card in the middle console, "but if ever you want to talk or if Timmy―"

"Do you have children, Miss Sidle?" he cut in suddenly.

The question caught her by surprise. Her heart stopped as a searing pain pierced through it. Then she took a fraught breath, kick-starting it again. Tears rose, but she held on to them and turning her face away to a passing car she shook her head.

"When Timmy was born," he went on, unaware of her turmoil, "I didn't think my life could get any better." He gave a scoff, "And it didn't. Maybe it's time for a fresh start, for me and Timothy. I just want to put all this behind us, not keep going over it." Sara gave a nod at what he was implying. "Today, I'm going to take my son home and try to give him a semblance of normalcy."

"Take care, Mr Carver," she said, stepping back as he reached to pull the car door shut.

She turned on her heels and walked away without a backward glance toward where she'd parked the Denali. She was sitting behind the wheel, head leaned back against the headrest and her eyes closed when her cell rang. She didn't need to check the display to know it would be Grissom. She wiped at her eyes and connected the call.

"Hey," he said and the tenderness in his voice brought more tears, "Are you alone?" When she answered in the affirmative he asked, "Do you want me to come and get you?"

"No," she managed. "I just need a minute."

"Where are you?"

"Still at PD."

"No, I mean, _where_ at PD?"

"In the truck."

She heard his long exhale of breath. "Close your eyes," he bid softly, and she did without question. "Now, I want you to clear your head and cast your mind forward a week or so… You, me and Hank. We're walking. Walking round the edge of Lake Mead. It's a little rocky and uneven in places so we're going slowly. There's no one around. Just deep blue water and forests stretching as far as the eye can see."

Sara felt herself begin to relax. A smile formed, growing on her face with each of his words.

"The sun is shining brightly above our heads so I'm wearing my hat," he went on quietly, and Sara couldn't help letting out an involuntary chuckle at the vision this conjured up. "Don't mock, and don't peek," he warned in all seriousness, and fully caught up in his game Sara clenched her eyes tighter shut. "There's a cool, refreshing breeze blowing in our faces. Your hair is a little unruly and curling around the edges, just the way I like it. Hank's barking at some gulls circling overhead, and then he sees something and bounds on ahead toward the water's edge."

"I follow him," she found herself saying, taking over his tale, "and…take my boots and socks off."

There was a pause and a disbelieving, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And then I roll my pant legs up to my knees."

"You're going toe dipping?"

She gave a soft nod against the headrest. "And you're coming with me. Besides, how else are we going to catch our dinner?"

He let out a chuckle. "I look forward to it." He paused, and Sara knew that their lighthearted banter was sadly over. "You okay?"

She reopened her eyes. "I am now. I'm…going to head back."

"Please, come and find me when you do. You'll know where I'll be."

Sara thought about his words for a moment, and then nodded her head at them. He might be away a lot, but he was never far and she always knew where to find him. In her heart, in her thoughts, it didn't matter where, he was always there. Her gaze drifted over toward where Carver's car had been parked moments earlier and she sighed. This break would definitely be good for them, and she couldn't wait to leave all this behind - albeit for a little while.


	23. Chapter 23

"You do have perfect timing, don't you?"

Grissom turned round with a start and gave Sara a lopsided smile. The hint of teasing in her voice and the soft upward curve of her lips as she covered the distance to him couldn't fail to warm his heart. He'd been so worried about her; she'd sounded so despondent on the phone. Despite her smile she looked tired and pasty, emotionally drained, and again he wished he could just solve this godforsaken case for her so she could begin to find some closure and put it all behind her, behind them, once and for all.

He'd finally made the call to Patricia Alwick and she'd agreed to see them for a preliminary visit this coming Friday. The plan was that after he and Sara returned from their trip to Lake Mead they would schedule more sessions and find ways to heal properly from their own personal ordeal. Sara had held on to her grief for long enough, and it was time they moved on – however painful the process might be – and look forward to the future, a future together.

He would try his hardest to find a balance with his work and only travel away if he absolutely needed to. He thought complete healing might come in the form of another child, but sadly it was clear that Sara thought differently – and with just cause maybe. Ultimately the decision was hers to make, and he would respect it.

"I do try," he told her earnestly, the smile growing on his tired face, "I just don't seem to always get it right."

Her smile widening she reached up to cup his cheek. "You get it right often enough," she said, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. She lowered her hand and her gaze. "I was…thinking, you know, on the way over, and…I want you to know that…I couldn't have gone through these last few days without you here…with me." He opened his mouth to say he was glad he could be there for her when she lifted her hand, cutting his words short. "Let me finish," she said, and forced a trembling smile. "I know our marriage is not always a bed of roses, but being married to you is the only thing in my life that I treasure and value above anything else."

Their voices were low, their bodies slightly turned away from view and to anyone happening to walk past or look in they looked like they were just talking. Grissom felt himself choke up. He swallowed the tightness in his throat and nodded his head. "Honey, I know that. And you know I feel the same way." They stared at each other for a moment longer before he asked, "What brought this on, huh?"

Her gaze averted and she shook her head.

"How did your talk with Carver go?" he tried again.

She glanced at him. "It was okay. It upset me," she admitted at last in a small smile, when his eyes narrowed at her with disbelief, "but I'm fine now. Better."

He gave a soft chuckle of disbelief. In the past he would have let that be the end of it, but not this time. It would be painful but he'd get her to talk about what was truly eating her up. "Come on, Sara," he coaxed gently, "you can do better than that. How are you really feeling?"

Her smile faded slightly as her gaze averted to a point on the wall beyond him. Blowing out a breath she moved to his chair, flopping down on it. To be honest, Grissom was surprised she hadn't simply found an excuse to walk out on him, and that in itself showed the depth of her turmoil and confusion. He glanced at the door, checking that it was closed, before swivelling round on his heels. Then he stood there, watching her, patiently waiting as she debated with herself how much to share, how honest to be with him. He knew this wasn't the right time or the right place but the opportunity had arisen and he wouldn't waste it.

"I don't know how I'm feeling," she admitted eventually, flicking her eyes up to him.

He moved away and pulled a stool out from under the workstation and placing next to the chair perched himself on it.

Her shoulder lifted. "I'm…feeling numb. Numb and…confused. I mean I'm happy for Timmy, of course I am, I―I'm real happy for him. Regardless of the outcome of the case he'll always have one parent there for him. One parent that'll love him and care for him, tuck him in at night and do all the things parents do for their children. And that's great. He's still so little."

Her eyes were shining with unshed tears now. She swallowed and looked away, blinking back her tears, while he reached for her hand. She'd opened up with the easy part, but he knew that her words hid another truth, a darker truth, one she wouldn't easily disclose. When she wouldn't meet his gaze, he gave her hand a small, encouraging squeeze, willing her to continue and not shut off her pain and him out as she was wont to do.

She met his anxious gaze and gave him a small, wobbly smile. "On the other hand," she went on after a while in a hoarse whisper, "I can't help but feel crushing disappointment."

He could see how much it cost her to admit as much. "Disappointment?" he repeated with a frown.

She nodded and when she turned away he dropped her hand, gently coaxing her face back toward him so she had no choice but look at him. He saw understandable desolation in her eyes, but also the look of deep-seated shame he used to associate with her recollecting her childhood and he now associated with her guilt over what had happened to Jasmine. She blamed herself for everything, and no amount of absolution on his part made any difference. Until she could forgive herself she wouldn't move on.

He let out a long sigh. "Sara―"

"Don't," she bid quietly, pulling her hand free, "No 'I told you so'." She got up from the chair, moving away to study the board where he was still charting the lifecycles of the various insects found on the victim's body while he watched her profiled face. "You've done a lot of work here, Gil," she said, turning toward him, and he let out an inward sigh. "Thank you. I don't know how we'd have done it without you."

"You'd have managed," he replied a little too dismissively maybe but he was growing impatient with her avoidance tactics. He stared at her, his gaze probing, expectant and unyielding.

Sara took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Her shoulder lifted. Her eyes flickered, darting about, not truly meeting his, and he knew from her body language how tough it was for her to be voicing these feelings. "I feel like I've been robbed of an opportunity," she stated at last, "of a chance to make amends." Her words had been so quiet, so matter-of-fact that briefly he wondered whether she had spoken them at all.

He was about to ask what she meant when a message played over the PA system in the garage. She turned toward the main body of the lab, and he knew she was looking for a way to bail out on him. "You know what?" she said right on cue, refocusing on him. She forced a smile and a brightness in her voice that did nothing to hide her sadness. "We shouldn't be doing this here. This isn't the place, or the time."

He stood up, reaching for her arm, keeping her in place. "Sara, talk to me," he bid quietly but earnestly.

She kept her gaze averted and shook her head. "I will, but not now, not here." She turned toward him and touched his cheek. "I promise we'll talk about this."

He stared at her at length, then gave her a nod and patted her arm lovingly. "I need to get back to work anyway," he said, with a slight twitch of his lips.

"I'm going to do an internet search about George, see what comes up abo―" The rest of her words died on her lips. Turning away from the plate-glass door she quickly brushed her fingers around her eyes and face and tidied her hair behind her ears. Grissom whipped his head toward the door with a frown and saw Russell ambling over down the corridor. God, the man's timing really sucked.

"So, Grissom," Russell said, his eyes on a document as he pushed the door open and walked in, "I only just got your message." He looked up. His eyes flicked from Grissom to Sara and then back to Grissom, and narrowed. "Oh, Sara, good, you're back!" he said, keeping his eyes on Grissom.

Pursing his mouth at how obvious Russell was being, Grissom stole a glance at Sara who in that short time had managed to rein in her emotion and school her features into a neutral expression.

"Got the DNA results on Carver's gun," Russell said with a wave of the document he was holding. "It's negative. Nothing biological came up."

Grissom turned his head toward Sara who was watching her boss intently. "Well, that's good, right?" he said. "Means Timmy didn't get the burn on his hand that way." Sara rewarded his comment with a small, grateful smile.

"Still," Russell argued, "Doesn't tell us who the shooter is either." He turned to Sara. "I also got the results on the prints you collected on George's car. No match to any of the prints we collected at the scene or to the partial on the slide of the gun, but remember we were never sure the prints we got on the car were hers anyway."

Sara let out a long, fed-up breath. "So we got nothing," she exclaimed despondently. The deep-etched scowl on her face showed the depth of her frustration.

"Not as yet, but we're not done looking, are we?" Russell nodded his head toward Grissom's timeline. "Grissom's still working on narrowing down TOD and Nick and Archie are busy sifting through traffic camera footage from near where Melinda lived. Talking of which, I'm sure they could do with a hand," he said pointedly. "It's a long shot, I know, but if we could catch a glimpse of George's Mercedes on them it would put her in the vicinity of the crime near enough to when it was committed. A hot little number like hers should easily stand out."

"Not in Henderson," Grissom remarked dryly.

Sara began moving to the door. "I'm on it," she said, "I'm going to look at traffic violations too."

"Good idea," Russell said with a nod. "By the way," he called, and waited until Sara turned back toward him to add, "Brass's checked. George's plane is on schedule, so bar some technical difficulties she should land in Vegas on time."

Sara paused, and it was clear from her sudden hesitation that she wanted to ask Russell if she could be present for the interview.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Sara," Russell said, reading her just as clearly as he had. The trace of regret in his voice surprised Grissom. "I think it's best if you sit this one out."

Grissom glanced over at Sara and was even more surprised to find her nodding at her boss's words. "Okay," she said. Her eyes flicked over to him, and he smiled softly at her. "Mind if I watch from the observation room?" she asked, refocusing once more on Russell. When Russell opened his mouth to object Sara lifted a placatory hand. "I promise _not_ to step in. And if it makes you feel better Grissom can come and chaperone me." Grissom's brow lifted at her choice of words.

"All right," Russell said after a moment's hesitation, "But don't let it be a decision I regret."

Sara gave Russell a nod, then flicked her gaze back to Grissom. They stared at each other briefly, before Sara mouthed 'Thank You' and turned her back on them. His eyes followed her as she left the garage, striding down the corridor to the A/V lab with renewed purpose.

"How is she?" Russell asked when Sara was well out of earshot.

"Fine, it would appear," Grissom replied lightly, refocusing his gaze on the supervisor.

Russell stared at him expectantly before giving his head a shake and smiling knowingly. "That's all I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"That's all indeed," Grissom said with a growing smile.

"All right," Russell chuckled in good-humour. "So, this request of yours, what is it?"

* * *

After Russell had left, granting him his request bar for an emergency, Grissom worked very hard, checking and rechecking his calculations so he could narrow down further time of death. One thing at a time, he kept reminding himself as his thoughts invariably drifted to Sara, help solve the case first and then deal with their own personal issues. Hours passed, his feelings of frustration growing with every passing second, but finally he had a breakthrough.

"I got something," Sara exclaimed suddenly, excitedly, as she burst through the open garage door.

Grissom finished inputting his data then removing his glasses turned toward her expectantly. The wide grin on her lips told her all he needed to know about her state of mind and his eyes slid down to her chest and the iPad she was clutching to her with interest.

"I got something too," he said with a waggle of his brow as he brought his eyes back to her face, and Sara's smile of pleasure broadened.

"Well, I got zilch," Brass said in his usual deadpan tone, walking up behind Sara. Sara turned around while Grissom's eyes drifted over to him. The captain had a look encompassing the two of them and his world-weary face slowly softened. "This is nice," he remarked, with a pleasant half-smile on his lips, "Reminds me of old times." Grissom frowned, waiting for the acerbic punch line but it never came. "So, come on," Brass went on, "one of you, make an old man happy."

Grissom glanced at Sara and shrugged. "You go first," she said.

"Okay." Grissom slid his glasses back on while he turned toward his laptop. He gave the keys a couple of taps, clicking over to an existing document, and stepped back. On cue, Brass and Sara took a step closer and peered intently at the screen. "I was able to narrow down time of death a little bit more," Grissom said. "It's not ideal, but it's the best I can do in the circumstance."

Brass nodded, then looked up and turned toward Grissom. His face was lit up in a wry smile. "That's a pretty chart, Gil, but…"

The corner of Grissom's lip turned up in a smile. He was about to answer when Sara said, "Melinda was killed between seven and eleven." Grissom shot Sara a mock-aggrieved look that she'd stolen his thunder but she went on regardless, clearly excited. "And Nick caught a glimpse of the Merc speeding down Greenway Road, headed toward Boulder Highway at eight forty-five pm. We know it's not exactly near the crime scene but he's still looking into it, see if he can't follow her movements to or from there."

"Good work," Brass said in a nod. "Gives me something concrete to talk about when I speak with her."

"I got something else too," Sara said. She put the iPad down on the workbench, clicked it back on and a close-up picture of the top half body of a very pretty blonde woman filled the screen. She had a contented look about her face and was looking straight at the camera, showing off twin rows of pearly white teeth. "Meet George Cooper," she said, stepping back to make way.

Grissom's brow rose in interest. He and Brass stepped a little closer and peered intently at the screen. George looked young and confident and still visibly glowing from her win, but if you looked deeper her clear blue eyes looked cold, her smile a little fake, more like the well-practiced smile of an unhappy soul. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, her face devoid of ostentatious makeup and she wore team colours and a big gold medal around her neck.

"Well, well, well," Brass remarked, "I can only imagine she gets her good looks from her mother."

"And her marksmanship from her father," Grissom piped up. "I seem to remember he's not a bad shot himself."

"Rifles," Brass acquiesced with a nod.

"The picture was taken yesterday," Sara said. "It accompanies an interview she gave USA Shooting News after her latest win. She came top of the Bullseye pistol shooting competition at Fort Lauderdale."

Grissom's eyes were still glued to the photograph. Something was hanging around her neck, only just visible underneath the thick ribbon holding the medal. Frowning he leaned his face down closer to the screen. When he looked up and round at Sara she was barely supressing a wide, excited grin.

"We found it," she said excitedly. "It's a sign."

He couldn't help but fail to share in her enthusiasm. "You know that the odds that this is the one are very slim, right?" he warned with a dubious twist of the lips, weary of being the one who once again burst her bubble.

"She's a fierce competitor," Sara argued. "She doesn't take prisoners. She likes to keep mementos from all her victories." When Grissom's gaze narrowed at her in bewilderment Sara's smile widened and she shrugged. "All words spoken from the horse's mouth," she insisted, "You can read it for yourself if you wish. It's all in the article."

"It does look about the right shape and size," Grissom conceded in a grudging sigh.

"What looks about the right size?" Brass asked with puzzlement and then when the answer didn't come fast enough, "Come on, enough with the cryptic talk!"

"Take a closer look around George's neck," Grissom told him.

Brass stared at Grissom, then did as instructed with a deepening frown. "What's so special about the medal?" he grumbled, "I got one too. Only I don't parade it for everyone to see." The words drifted off as his face softened, his frown morphing into a wry smile. "Oh, I see it." He looked up and met his and Sara's expectant faces with a raised brow. "Something to remember her lover by, maybe?"


	24. Chapter 24

"I just spoke with Brass," Russell said. "George is five minutes away."

Sara turned and found him in the doorway, phone in hand, watching her closely. She put the picture of Ellie back down on the desk and nodded.

"Grissom's not with you?"

A knowing smile playing round the edges of her mouth, she turned her body round fully and leaned against Brass's desk. "Why? You're worried?"

Russell stepped inside the office. His expression was serious. "Should I be?"

Sara's smile faded slightly. "No. I said I wouldn't interfere and I won't. Gil's gone to the bathroom."

Russell gave a nod, then jerked his head toward the desk. "You met Ellie?" he asked.

"Once," Sara said, her eyes flicking over to the framed photograph, "When Jim…" she swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat and brought her gaze back to her boss, "When he got shot."

Russell's brow lifted in surprise. "I didn't know he got shot."

"Some years ago now," she said. "It's not something he talks about much."

"He doesn't talk about himself, period," Russell retorted in a scoff. "He's very much like your husband in that respect." He gave her a smile. "And you."

Sara didn't reward his comment with a reply. Not straightaway anyway. She just held his gaze steadily until the expression on his face grew concerned and she found herself averting her eyes.

"I lost a child," she said in a choked out whisper, and looked up. The words had come unbidden, uttered before she could take them back, and she wondered why him, now. She realised then that admitting she was grieving was the first step to her recovery, and that maybe it was her subconscious giving her a little nudge. She made herself hold his gaze as she added, "Gil and I―we lost a baby." The word caught and she forced a smile. Instinctively she brushed her fingers under her eyes to dry her tears but there were none. "Jasmine," she made herself say, "Her name was Jasmine."

Russell stared at her speechless for a long moment. Emotion shone in his eyes. "Sara," he then said, and she knew an apology was forthcoming but before he could voice it movement beyond him caught her eye. She looked up, finding her husband watching them – watching _her_ – from the doorway. His gaze was soft, a gentle and warm caress on her face, and she knew he'd heard. Grissom smiled at her then and she found herself returning the smile.

"We ought to…take our position before George gets here," he said when Russell turned toward him.

Sara nodded, then looked at Russell who was watching their interaction closely. She wondered if he would comment on what she'd just told him, but he didn't. He simply nodded his head, preceding her out of the room past Grissom who fell into step beside her.

"I'm proud of you," he said in a whisper in her ear and she turned toward him and smiled.

It wasn't that long ago that they'd made the similar walk to the interview room to talk to Carver. This time though, Sara took her place next to Grissom in the observation room and Russell joined an already seated Brass. A lone file sat on the table in front of Brass. The captain gave a sigh then stood up and pocketed his cell. Almost immediately, an officer popped his head round the door, informing them of George's arrival.

"Miss Cooper," Brass said as a couple of minutes later George preceded the uniformed officer into the interrogation room, "I'm Captain Brass."

Sara's eyes immediately zoomed in on George's neck but her jacket was done up, hiding the pendant underneath – assuming she still had it on. Blond shoulder-length hair fell in waves over her collar, shimmering under the artificial lights. Its simple cut parted in the middle belied careful styling. Sara scanned her eyes downward taking in the short, fitted black leather jacket over a pair of stylish blue jeans and high-heeled, knee-high black leather boots.

Brass extended his hand at the suspect who briefly stared at it with distrust before finally raising her own hand. Sara's eyes widened, fixing on the hand as it gave Brass's a confident shake. "And this is CSI Russell," Brass then said, indicating with his hand the CSI standing beside him.

George flicked her gaze over to Russell standing beside Brass. Her stare was direct, her manner assured, her entrance faultless. "It's _Ms_ Cooper," she said, stressing the Ms meaningfully.

Sara's eyes returned to George's hand as it extended again, this time meeting Russell's. "She wears gloves," she said in a gasp of realisation, and turned toward her husband. "That's why there were no other prints on the gun."

Grissom remained silent, simply nodding his head in acknowledgement of her words, and Sara turned her attention back to the room.

"_Ms_ Cooper," Brass dutifully repeated with a nod of his head. He opened his hand out to the chair across from him and Russell, inviting her to sit down. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet you at the airport."

"What is this about?" George asked in a forthright manner, remaining standing. "I want to know why you had me driven here. Has something happened to my father?"

Brass shook his head. "No. As far as we know Judge Cohen is fit and healthy."

"Then, I don't get it. It's late and I'm tired so…"

"Please, take a seat," Brass tried again. This time, George complied and Brass and Russell sat down across from her. "I understand you're a friend of Melinda Carver's?"

George's face creased with a frown. She swallowed. "That's right," she said a little cagily.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news." He waited a beat before delivering the news. "Melinda died."

The gloved hand rose, covering George's mouth. Tears filled her eyes. "Died?"

Brass gave a nod. He kept his voice low, neutral, non-threatening. "She was murdered. At home. Last Sunday evening."

"Murdered?" she gasped, and dropped her gaze. The hand on her mouth was shaking slightly.

"Oh, she's good," Sara remarked dryly. "She's very good. There's a textbook reaction if I ever saw one."

Brass turned toward the mirror, looking straight at them, and cocked a brow. "During the course of our investigation," he then said, refocusing on George, "it came to light that you and Melinda were more than just friends. Is that right?"

George looked up sharply. Her tears had spilled, silently flowing down her face, and Sara's head shook in contempt. "Could I get a glass of water?" she asked in a trembling voice.

Brass looked up at the officer standing guard at the door, nodded his head at him and the officer left the room. He shared a brief look with Russell, then turned back to George. "Where did you and Melinda meet?" he asked.

George took a moment to compose herself before she replied. "Am I a suspect in her murder?" Her tone was part surprised, part curious.

"Everyone's a suspect," Brass said evenly, then flashed a brief smile at her, "And it is your right to have an attorney present while we talk." He paused, his tone of voice softening as he added, "I understand the news come as a shock to you, Ms Cooper, but there are quite a few gaps in Mel's life directly prior to her death we hoped you could fill for us."

"Very good, Jim," Grissom said, "Just reel her in gently."

George met Brass's eye dead on. "I take it you haven't found the killer then," she said.

"We're still in the process of gathering evidence," Russell chipped in.

George briefly pondered her choices, but then gave a nod, and Sara could only shake her head again at the woman's spot on performance. "Mel and I met at the range," she said, a smile forming on her lips as though she was recollecting pleasant memories, "Deserts Sportsman. I'd recently joined. We hit off straightaway."

"When was that?" Brass asked.

"A year ago, a bit longer?"

The officer chose this moment to step back into the room, carrying a small bottle of water and a plastic cup which he placed on the table in front of George. Immediately George reached over, twisting the lid off the bottle before filling the cup with water and taking a small sip. Sara cursed at the fact that she was still wearing her gloves and wouldn't unknowingly be providing them with her fingerprints. And as it stood, her DNA was of no use to them.

"So, is it fair to say you knew the victim well?" Brass asked, refocusing her at once.

George put her glass down on the table and nodded her reply. She wiped at the corners of her mouth.

"Did you know she kept a gun at home?"

George looked up. If she was surprised by Brass's directness she didn't let on. "Don't we all?"

Brass acknowledged the comment with a nod. "When was the last time you saw Mel?"

George briefly considered her reply. "I don't remember. Not for a while."

"So you haven't been to the house recently," Brass stated.

George's eyes averted and she shook her head.

"Would you consent to giving us your fingerprints anyway?" Russell asked.

George turned her attention to the CSI. "You won't find my fingerprints there," she said assuredly, and frustratingly Sara knew she would be correct. And without a warrant or evidence to place her there, they couldn't compel her prints. "I just told you. I wasn't in the house recently."

"Do you know of anyone who'd…want to harm Melinda?" Brass asked.

"Her cleaner?" George said matter-of-fact after a pause, "she was having problems with her."

"What kind of problems?"

She shrugged. "Money was going missing from the house, and then a bracelet."

"Do you have a name?"

George smoothed down her hair. "Maria, Consuela, something like that."

Sara's face contorted with disgust at George's disdain. "I really hate people like her," she muttered under her breath. "Spoiled, rich kids who don't know they've got it made."

Grissom let out a scoff. "Is this when I restrain you?" he teased. "Because you know I have the means to do so."

Sara's gaze narrowed playfully as slowly she turned toward him. He was watching her from the corner of his eye, a half-smile on his lips, and she couldn't help but return his smile. "She's good," Sara told him, sobering up, "I'll grant her that."

Grissom's expression became sober too, and he nodded his head. "She's enjoying herself and the attention, that's for sure."

"Anybody else comes to mind?" Brass asked, and they turned back to the interview.

George's face lit up with a wry smile. "Have you tried her husband?"

"Mr Carver isn't a suspect," Brass replied coolly, leaving it at that, and Sara could have sworn she saw George squirm in her seat. "When…did the two of you become romantically involved?" he then asked, his stare unflappable.

George's smile stiffened. "She was getting a divorce."

"That's right, she was," Brass said, unperturbed by the change of tack.

George scoffed. "Too right, she was. She should have left that…" she bit back a curse, "a long time ago."

Brass's brow rose. "I take it from your tone there is no love lost between the two of you."

"I've hardly met the guy."

"But regardless you seem to have formed an opinion," Russell chipped in, and George fixed him with a dark look.

"Mel wasn't happy," she told him. "Hadn't been for a long time."

"And she was happy with you?" Russell queried, his tone soft, interested.

George's face softened with genuine fondness. "Yes, she was. We were happy."

"You don't seem overly upset by Melinda's death," the CSI then remarked with a raised brow. "I mean, you seem very cool, very composed in the circumstance."

"Appearances can be deceptive," she levelled at him.

"Yes, they can," Brass agreed.

George's head turned to him. "In my sport, to be the best you have to keep a cool head. I am the best."

Brass made a suitably impressed face. "Was Melinda leaving her husband for you?" he asked, clearly returning to his previous line of questioning.

George's eyes averted. She gave a nod. "We were going to make a life together. Me, Mel and her son."

Brass feigned surprise both in his expression and in his tone. "Ah, so you know Timmy?"

"I've met him a couple of times, but no, I didn't _know_ him. She wanted to wait until the divorce was finalised before I got to know him properly."

"So, what happened?" Brass asked in the same carefree tone, but Sara knew he was losing patience and was ready to make the first strike.

George's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"Well, you're painting a lovely picture here, George―May I call you George, or do you prefer _Georgie_?" George swallowed. "But you see, we've had access to Melinda's laptop and email account, her phone records too, and from what we read she broke up with you. A few months back. Quite abruptly in fact. Very abruptly. That must have been tough to stomach."

Clearly uncomfortable, George pulled at the sides of her black leather jacket, popping it open, and pulled at the collar. "It was."

Brass opened the file in front of him and took out a printout which he moved toward her before closing the file again. "This is a copy of an email Melinda received on the Wednesday before she died. Did you send it?"

Frowning, George leaned forward in her seat and scanned her eyes over the document. Sara knew Brass was putting the pressure on now, trying to rattle the suspect into making a mistake and admitting to something that might incriminate her. Before George could catch her breath and deny she'd sent the email, a claim that couldn't be refuted, Brass took a breath and pushed on.

"We also have evidence that you called Mel on Saturday evening at 5.19 pm," he went on swiftly, his pressure unrelenting. "The call lasted over four minutes. What did you two talk about?"

George looked up from the email abruptly and sighed. This time Brass waited for a reply. "I asked her to go away, come with me to Florida."

"And she said no, didn't she?" Brass enquired pleasantly. "Geoffrey Carver was at the house when you called. He heard you and Mel arguing. Said it wasn't pretty. Mel had cut you out of her life completely, hadn't she? Tossed you out like an old―"

"Mel got cold feet," George interrupted heatedly, and checked her tone. "That's why she split up with me. She thought the courts would give that husband of hers custody of that little brat. He was threatening to expose her – expose us – if she didn't agree to his demands."

"All he wanted was his son," Brass stated quietly.

"And that's all she wanted too, isn't it?" Russell piped up quietly. "You played second fiddle to young Timmy and you didn't like it."

George's face closed off. "I'm done speaking with you," she said, and pushed to her feet. "I thought I was helping you but―"

"Come on, Jim," Grissom urged under his breath, "play your trump card now, or she's walking."

Brass opened the file in front of him again and pushed out a couple of photographs, which he turned toward her and placed on top of the email side by side. "We have you on CCTV a mile from Melinda's house when the crime was committed." Sara noticed he was deliberately being vague on the timing.

George paused in her tracks. Her eyes flicked down to the table and she frowned. Sara could see the cogs working in her mind. Right on cue, George's expression softened with a smile and she leaned down, reaching a hand to the photograph. As she did so, her jacket opened fully, dislodging the pendant which fell out in plain view. Sara's face broke into a wide grin as Grissom's hand wrapped around hers and squeezed.

"I _was_ in Henderson on Sunday evening," George replied. "I had dinner at Bernard's Bistro with my mother. We sat on the patio. I had the onion soup. She had the quiche Lorraine. Tarte Tatin for dessert." Her gaze, fixed on Brass, was unwavering. "I recommend it, best place in the whole of Vegas to eat. Beautiful views of the Lake."

Sara's heart sank; she had an answer for everything. And the perfect alibi. Sara knew for a fact that the restaurant in question had a security camera in the entrance lobby and a second one over the bar area that would clearly show George and her mother there. She turned toward Grissom who was watching her and she knew that he had cast his mind back to the many times they'd had dinner there.

Brass wasn't quite done yet. "What time was that?" he pressed on.

George thought before she replied. "My mother booked a table for seven. We left at 8.30, and I drove her home."

"And afterwards?"

George slowly sat herself back down. She levelled a look at the detective. "Are you asking me to account for my whereabouts?" she asked casually. "Have I become a suspect?"

Grissom had estimated time of death between the hours of seven and eleven pm. George's whereabouts were accounted for until roughly nine pm which left a two-hour window for her to have committed the crime. After dropping her mother off George had had ample time to drive to Melinda's house. It was a school night; Timmy would have been tucked in bed, sleeping. George would have shown up out of the blue, got the gun and found Melinda relaxing in the pool house.

An argument had ensued. Raised voices would have travelled in the silence of the night, as would a sudden gunshot. Timmy's window looked out onto the backyard and she could well imagine the little boy sleepily peering out of it, wondering what the commotion was about. George had said she'd met the boy a few times, would he have recognised her in the dim light? What she couldn't get her head round though was why he hadn't called for help.

"She's going to walk," Sara said, tugging her hand out of Grissom's and lifting it to her face. "We have nothing to pin her down to the murder and she knows it."

Brass didn't reply to George's question. He simply lowered his eyes to her chest and George followed his gaze to the pendant. "Interesting choice of jewellery you've got there," he remarked in as casual a manner as he could muster in the circumstance.

George's hand slowly lifted to the pendant. She smiled. "It's a .22 calibre bullet casing."

Grissom gave a scoff of disbelief, and Sara glanced at him. There was a wry smile on his lips and his head was shaking as he watched the scene in the other room.

"Is it?" Brass remarked lightly, and she refocused. "Rather unusual, don't you think? In my experience women generally prefer gold and diamonds."

"I'm not like other women," George said, her smile broadening slightly. She was toying with them and clearly loving every minute of it. "But if you must know, it's…the spent cartridge from the final and winning shot of the very first match I won. It's brought me luck ever since. I never take it off."

"She's got an answer for everything, hasn't she?" Sara said in a sigh while Brass carried on talking.

"Well," Grissom reasoned, "She could be telling the truth."

Sara shot him a dark look, and he gave her a mild shrug.

"I had it engraved," George was now saying, "With the date and total point score. Would you like a look at it? Put your mind at rest?"

If she was bluffing she was a pro at it. "Oh, she's good," Sara muttered, "Real good."

Brass stole a glance at the mirror. "No," he said with an uneasy smile, knowing he'd laid down all his cards and come out sadly lacking.

"I know she did it," Sara said, "I just know it."

She could feel Grissom's worried gaze on her and she took a deep breath, keeping a lid on her growing frustration. Grissom's hand slipped inside hers hanging by her side and she looked over at him, grateful for his quiet comfort and reassurance. He was going to speak when they heard raised voices coming from outside in the corridor and the door to the interview room burst open, startling everyone inside.

"Georgie," came the thunderous voice of an irate-looking Judge Cohen, "Don't say another word! You're done helping these good people." Rushing up to his daughter he took her by the arm, urging her to her feet and toward the door. "Come on, we're out of here."

The officer at the door was ready to intervene but Brass stood up and lifted his hand, catching the officer's attention, then shook his head. The officer reluctantly stood down. Brass turned to Russell and they shared a resigned look. They'd done their best, but it hadn't been enough.

Cohen stopped dead in his tracks at the doorway and whipped round toward them with a raised finger that he pointed at Brass. "And you, Brass, you've got some nerve! Interrogating my daughter without counsel!"

"Hello, Judge," Brass retorted, cool and unfazed, "Still got friends in the Department I see. And for your information _Ms_ Cooper was _voluntarily_ helping us with our inquiry. She waived her right to counsel."

Cohen's hostile gaze narrowed to slits. "This isn't the end of this," he threatened with a wave of his finger.

A wry smile formed on Brass's face. Cohen's eyes dropped to the table and leaving George waiting at the door he strode up to it, briefly glancing at the photographs laid there before grabbing the plastic cup George had drunk from and crushing it to a pulp. Then he turned on his heels, headed out of the door without a backward look. Before she followed her father George looked over her shoulder at Brass and Russell and smiled sweetly.

"She did it," Sara muttered, short-tempered, as the door closed on the pair. She turned away from the mirror, failing to notice the sad and dejected way Russell slumped down on his chair. "She killed Melinda and she's going to get away with it!"

Clearly on his guards, Grissom moved closer to the door, ready to bar her way if necessary. "We have no evidence to support that, Sara," he reasoned calmly.

"And doesn't she know it!" she snapped. "And what about Timmy?" she exclaimed, "He was there. I know he saw what happened. We could―"

"Sara, you can't just put her in a lineup and expect a six-year-old to pick her out."

Sara's shoulders sagged, defeated. He slid his arm around her waist, hugging her close. Then he turned her toward him and coaxed her chin up until she had no choice but look at him. "And even if he did pick her out," he went on softly, "he couldn't testify in court, you know that. As tragic as it is, it's best for everyone concerned to let the case lie."

She tensed in his arms, but he didn't let her go. "You still think he did it, don't you?"

Grissom let out a breath. "It doesn't matter what I think. It's what we know, what we can prove, that matters, and at the moment we have nothing concrete linking George to the murder. Nothing that'll get us a warrant to search her house, or her car or even get her fingerprints…We're lucky the interview went this far." He paused and held her gaze. "Yes, she had motive, opportunity and the means to kill Melinda. But without her prints on the murder weapon, or a witness that isn't a terrified six-year-old boy whose credibility and reliability would be questioned placing her at the scene…there's nothing we can do."

She felt tears of anger, of frustration rise. "It's not fair," she said in a wobbly voice.

Grissom's lips pinched as he watched her break apart. "No, it isn't," he said, "but that's the nature of the job. Sweetheart, you did everything you could. We all did."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't enough, was it?" she said in a fraught whisper. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and looked away. "She's going to walk and Timmy will have to live with the consequences, knowing his mother was murdered and the killer got away with it."

His hand rose to her face and pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. "You didn't fail him, Sara, if that's what you're thinking. Just like you didn't fail Jasmine."

Her smile was sad and unconvinced. When had he learned to read her so well? "Didn't I?"

"No, you didn't," he said softly, and held her gaze.

"Life goes on, huh?" she said, her tone unfairly harsh, and twisted her face away from his touch. She moved away, turning toward the two-way mirror and Russell still sitting there, alone. She let out a long, tired breath, closed her eyes at the wave of sudden weariness that washed over her and leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

"Come on," Grissom said softly, taking her by the shoulders, "Let's get out of here. Let's go get some air, do something."

"I can't." She turned, meeting his gaze. "I got shift."

"I already cleared it with Russell. You're mine for the rest of the night." He gave her a tentative smile and checked his watch. He looked impatient suddenly, as if he had somewhere else to be. "So what do you say?"

She frowned. "Gil, what's going on?"

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

His question gave her pause. Didn't he know the answer to it? Had she given him grounds to doubt that she trusted him with her whole self? And as she stared at the worry and uncertainty in his gaze she felt tears rise again, prickling the back of her eyes. She realised then that, No, he wasn't sure whether she trusted him, and with just cause. It was as though any minute now he was expecting her to bail out on him, leave him behind to his own pain and desperation like she had done every time the going had got too tough in the past.

She took a breath, and then another. She didn't have to look too deeply to also see unconditional love and devotion in his blue eyes; she didn't have to search far to find and feed from his strength, courage and fortitude. She would stay strong and think that actually life did go on with all its trials and challenges, but that with him she could get over them all, this latest hardship included.

Her hand lifted to his face, tracing along his jawline, and she smiled. And the wider her smile grew the brighter the twinkle in his eyes shone, eclipsing his fears and uncertainties. "You already cleared it, huh?" she said teasingly. "That was a little presumptuous of you. What if I said no?"

"Well, I was kind of hoping you wouldn't," he said, lips twitching with giddiness. He turned his face toward her hand and pressed his lips to it. "Come on," he then urged, taking her by the hand. He opened the door and tugged her out of the room. "We got to hurry or the place will shut down for the night."

Everybody knows that Vegas never sleeps, and as hand in hand they rushed out of PD Sara racked her brain trying to find out where he was taking her. A cool breeze hit her face as they stepped out of the building and stopping dead in her tracks she closed her eyes and turned her face up to the night sky. He had other ideas though, and his grip on her hand tightening he tugged her forward and down the steps enthusiastically.

"Come on," he urged again. "We don't have a minute to waste!"

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, laughing despite herself at what he was doing.

He dropped her hand, then swivelled round on his heels, half-walking half-skipping backwards. A mischievous grin lit up the whole of his face and he tapped the side of his nose. "Away from here," he replied, his words echoing in the silence of the PD car lot. He grabbed her hand again, pulling her forward, increasing his pace until she had no choice but to trot alongside him.

"Do I get a clue?" she laughed, breathless as they reached the car.

"A clue?" Grissom pursed his face at her. "Ah, what the hell," he said, bright eyes shining with unconcealed delight, "you'll know soon enough anyway. We're going to ride a yellow cab."

Sara's frown slowly morphed into a wide, dancing grin. "You're taking me to ride the New York-New York?"

His shoulder lifted. "Why not? It's the best therapy I know. Besides, how long has it been since we've done that, huh?"

"Too long." She gave an eager nod of the head. "Come on then, let's do it."

The corners of his mouth curled up in a tender smile. His gaze was intent, searching, penetrating. Seemingly in no hurry any more, he closed the distance to her, pinning her against the car. His hand lifted to her face and he leaned in for a kiss. "Yes, let's," he murmured, his lips vibrating against hers but not quite making contact.

A smile spread on Sara's lips. "Tease," she breathed and captured his mouth in a searing kiss.

* * *

The end.

* * *

A/N: Epilogue to follow in the New Year.


	25. Epilogue

A/N: Sorry about the delay with this epilogue, but I got there in the end. This is soooo very long; I hope you enjoy it.

I have no plans or original ideas for another multi-chaptered story so this might be it from me…unless TPTB throw something juicy our way, of course. We'll just have to wait and see. But just in case, I want to thank you, as always, for reading all my stories, putting them in your favourite list and leaving reviews along the way. It means so much.

* * *

Epilogue.

* * *

Grissom put his book down and looked over to where Sara was sitting twenty yards away. "Are the fish biting for you?" he called, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight.

Hank's head lifted off his front paws, turning toward him, ears pricking up in interest. Grissom smiled on noticing Sara's slight startle at his call, confirming his suspicions that like Hank curled up at her feet she'd dozed off. She gave her head a slight shake, shifting up on her folding canvas chair, but her face stayed turned toward the water, her eyes shielded behind black sunglasses, betraying nothing.

"Not much," she called back, "You?"

"Me neither," he replied, his gaze returning to the rippling waters of the lake and the bobbing pole float of his fishing rod. They'd been at it for two hours now, and had nothing to show for their effort. Standing up, he picked up the rod and jerked at the line, vainly teasing the fish with the bait, then eased another glance in her direction. "I guess we're going to have to make do with what we've got at the cabin for dinner."

"Maybe we could take a drive to Callville Bay. Eat at that snack bar near the harbour."

He turned toward her with surprise and found her watching him, a teasing smile on her face. "Missing civilisation already?" he queried in good-humour.

It was now day three of their week away at Doc Robbins' cabin, almost half-way, and time was going too fast. Since they'd arrived they hadn't met or spoken to a single person. Their phones were stowed away, switched off; the nearest cabin to theirs was a ten-minute drive away, the nearest town, twenty minutes away, and Vegas despite only being an hour away could be on a different continent.

The pace was slower, more in tune with nature and their basic needs. There was no stress, no interruptions, no demands placed upon them other than those they placed upon themselves. They got up when they wanted, ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired, the notion of keeping to set times irrelevant.

The weather so far had been perfect for long walks in woods further inland or hikes around the lake, for fishing or just pottering around the cabin, doing odd jobs and chopping an endless supply of wood for the stove. They'd stopped on the way up to buy fishing permits and bait and had brought enough supplies from Vegas to be self-sufficient for the week.

"No," she said, laughing. "You?"

He didn't even need to ponder his reply. "No," he said with a confident shake of the head, "Not one little bit. In fact, I'm positively enjoying everything; the isolation, the peace and quiet and let's not forget the lack of interruptions too."

"So am I," she laughed.

"And being with you, of course."

Her smile faded. "Me too," she said gravely, and smiled again. They stared at each other for a moment before she glanced away toward the black mountains overlooking the channel of water stretching before them. "I love this place," she said and let out a long breath. "It's just what I needed."

Grissom nodded his head then followed her gaze and stared at a lone buzzard circling above the opposite peak. Shimmering water as blue as the sky stretched as far as the eye could see, encased on either side by steep and rugged terrain. It was just mesmerising landscape, spectacular, he thought, and liberating. He felt free there, free of constraints, free of their past and sorrow, and knew Sara felt the same. There was something about the magnificence of the place, the desolation and sheer scale of it that made you re-evaluate your place in it.

He took off his straw hat and ran a hand through his damp curls a couple of times before replacing the hat over his head. He bent down, reaching for his canteen, and drank a little tepid water from it. From his vantage point he could see dark storm clouds brewing far away in the distance, but whether they would make it to their shore remained to be seen. Overhead, the sun still shone brightly and the landscape afforded them little shade and shelter. The breeze blowing off the lake did nothing to lower the ambient temperature or humidity.

Grissom turned back toward Sara and watched as she lowered the cap over her sunglasses and sank down into the chair, stretching her legs in front of her and crossing them at the ankles before folding her arms over her chest. His smile widened; she was going back to sleep. He secured his rod, then covered the distance to her as silently as he could over the craggy rocks.

Hank's head lifted again, inclining to one side, and the dog watched his progress with an amused expression. Grissom brought a shushing finger to his lips, then crouched down behind Sara and draping his arms around her shoulders dropped a kiss to her neck. He felt her body briefly tense in surprise then relax into his touch as a smile formed on her lips.

"You can't stay still for a minute, can you?" she asked, leaning her face into him. One hand lifted, reaching to him behind her.

"I was missing you," he said, his reply muffled by her hair.

She lowered her hand and let out a long breath.

"What's up?" he asked, pulling back from her.

Her shoulder lifted. "Nothing I want to talk about right now," she said evasively, and glancing toward him flashed a smile.

"Sara," he said in a mildly warning tone, "We said we wouldn't…do that."

She turned toward him with a sigh, removed her sunglasses and met his expectant gaze. "I was thinking about the case," she admitted at last. "Mel Carver's."

"Sara," he lamented, "We said we wouldn't do that either." He glanced around for somewhere he could sit on and perched himself precariously on a small boulder. "We agreed no talk of work."

Her shoulder lifted again, in apology this time. "The funeral's a week tomorrow and…" her words trailed off.

"And you'd like to go."

She nodded. "I want to go, but I'm not sure I should."

Grissom considered her words. "I think you should go," he said confidently.

"Yeah?" she said with surprise.

He gave her a quiet nod. "I'll…come with you, if you want."

Her face lit up. "You don't need to, but thank you. I just want to…see Carver again. See how he's doing, see how Timmy's doing."

He nodded again, smiled. "Okay."

A brow lifted. "Just okay?"

Her question garnered another nod. "Yeah, just okay. But I'll come with."

A slow smile spread across her face. Her gaze lowered and she nodded her head at him. "Thank you." Just at that moment her fishing rod bent with a catch. The line began to unreel, and she giggled. "I think I finally caught our dinner."

"Let's see, shall we?" he said, wincing as he quickly scrambled up to his feet.

Sara followed suit, picking up the rod, and slowly began reeling the fish in. Hank was circling on the spot at the water's edge, barking excitedly. Grissom placed himself directly behind her and wrapped his arms around her body, covering her hands, one on the rod, the other one on the reel. Sara turned her face toward him and they shared a look and a smile. After a minute or so of careful reeling, a fish emerged out of the water, squirming and flapping. Grissom left Sara's side and reached for the net while she caught the fish in her hand and put the rod down.

"Oh, that's a beauty," he said returning with the net.

"Is it bass?" Sara asked, as she carefully tried getting the hook out of the fish's mouth.

"I don't think so," Grissom replied. "It looks more like a catfish to me."

It took a little time but, thankfully the fish hadn't swallowed the hook and she was able to wriggle it out without damaging the flesh too much. Grissom was opening the net for her when she turned away from him and walked to the water's edge. Bending down she slid her hands in and released the fish back into the wild. Hank bounded over to her in the water, splashing and barking at the fish.

"That's our dinner you're setting free," he said with a twist of his mouth.

Sara glanced over, grinning at him. "Just doing my bit."

Reaching down, she splashed a little water over her arms, the back of her neck and face to cool herself down, then straightened up to her full height and removed her ball cap, tossing it on the chair and shaking her damp hair free. Grissom watched with a smile, an idea forming in the back of his mind, then set the net down on the chair and covered the distance to her. Scooping her up into his arms he stepped right into the water. Sara gave a yelp of surprise, laughing, her hands instinctively coming up and around his neck for support. Hank was by his side, barking, joining in their fun.

"Put me down!" she laughed.

He shifted her higher up into his arms, then took another step forward. "What, here, now?" he asked, opening his arms out as though dropping her.

"No!" she shrieked, tightening her hold of him. And then when she saw the intent in his gaze added in a low, warning tone, "Gil…" He cocked his brow, daring her to go on with her threat. "If I go down, you go down with me and the water's freezing."

"I need cooling down anyway."

Her expression became imploring. "Gil, no," she pleaded, "My hair will get wet and there's no shower to wash it and…"

He laughed. "That's the worst excuse I've ever heard."

Maybe stepping into the water knee deep and fully-dressed had been a little rash considering his Hi-Tec-Total-Terrain-Aero-eighty-dollar walking shoes were sodden and probably ruined, his jeans heavy and clinging to his lower legs. He lifted one foot, and then the other, feeling the water squelch with every move. In for a penny in for a pound, as they say, he figured and with a wide grin on his face began to walk further into the lake until water reached the top of his legs.

Sara's eyes were wide and she squirmed in his arms, trying to wriggle upward, but he had her pinned solidly to him. He took another step, genuinely meaning to turn around, when his foot caught on a raised rock on the lake bed. He tried to keep his balance, but the momentum sent them both tumbling into the water. Sara let out a shriek and he stood up quickly, reaching for her before she had time to go right under, keeping her afloat. The damage was done, though, and she was a sight for sore eyes.

He helped her to her feet, then pulled his sinking hat out of the water and shook it off. "Oh, Sara, honey," he said, pinching his lips to stifle his grin, "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to, I promise. In fact, I was turning back when it happened." His shoulder lifted, and he returned the soaking hat to its rightful place on top of his head. "I tripped. I―"

Sara began to giggle. Her hands lifted to her tank top, dripping wet and clinging to her body, and she pulled at it, vainly because the material just clung on, accentuating _every_ curve on her upper body, much to his unabashed delight. "You're _sorry_?" she exclaimed, laughing.

He brought his gaze back up to her face and grinned. There was no mistaking his smug expression and the fact that he was relishing the moment. Sara pursed her face at his blatant teasing, then took a step back and began scooping and splashing water at him. He thought about retaliating, but noticing the goosebumps forming on her bare skin didn't.

"Sara, stop," he called gently, "You're cold, you're shivering. Let's get out and dry." Turning his face away he held out his hand at her in peace offering and eying him suspiciously she stopped splashing.

"You're calling a truce?"

"I'm declaring defeat."

He held out his hand further and she took it, and together they waded their way out of the water onto the shore, squelching and sloshing. Hank followed behind, shaking himself off on them. Sara laughed again, then reached for the picnic rug and used it to dry herself while Grissom quickly toed off his shoes and peeled off his T-shirt before stripping to his boxer shorts.

"We'll dry off in no time in this heat," he offered hopefully.

"I hope so," Sara said, "because I don't know about you, but I didn't bring a change of clothes."

Grissom pursed his face in contemplation, then ran his eyes over the cove and surrounding landscape. Not a buzzard in sight. "We could always…" his words trailed off with a shrug and a suggestive waggle of his brow.

"What, go native?" she laughed.

His shoulder lifted again. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Head shaking, Sara stripped to her pants and bra, neatly laying her tank top and shorts over the back of her chair to dry them, and tried to put some order back to her hair. The skin on her neck and shoulders and arms was very red where she'd caught the sun and Grissom frowned, his hand instinctively reaching toward her before withdrawing.

"I thought you'd put sunscreen on before we set off," he remarked with concern.

"I did," she said, looking down at herself. She lifted her sunglasses to take a better look. "Why, is it bad?"

His shoulder lifted. "Depends what look after you're after." He walked over to the backpack and rummaged inside for the cream. When he returned to her, she was pressing her fingers to her forearm, inspecting the damage and giggling. "Turn around," he bid quietly.

She did, gently lifting her hair out of the way. Grissom dropped a kiss to her tender neck, then squirted enough cream to cover her neck, shoulders, back and arms twice over. Her head tilted forward and he began to rub the cream in very gently, taking great care to cover every bit of exposed skin all the while praying that the sunburn looked worse than it was, or she would soon be very sore.

"Maybe we should head back," he said, wiping the leftover cream onto his own chest, "And stay out of the sun for the rest of the day."

Sara nodded, and silently they packed up their gear, ready to be hauled up the rocky path cut into the hillside back to the car parked a half-mile away. Grissom slung both backpacks over his shoulders while Sara took care of the rods and folding chairs, and whistled for Hank who came bounding after them down the path.

Dinner that evening, just as every meal had been so far, was a simple affair, grilled and eaten outside under the canopy of trees with Hank curled up at their feet. Beer was usually their beverage of choice at mealtimes, but that night, they shared a bottle of red wine that Grissom had sneaked into their supplies and been saving for just the right moment. His apology, he'd explained as he'd twisted the cap off, for the stunt he'd pulled that afternoon at the lake, and after registering a look of surprise Sara had readily accepted a glass.

The cabin was situated in a wooded hillside a few miles inland off the north shore of the Lake Mead. It had had some alterations made to accommodate wheelchair use, but was otherwise very basic. A petrol-operated generator made electricity for them; a water tank situated on one side of the cabin stored enough water for washing, cleaning and toilet-flushing while a good, old-fashioned fire-burning stove kept the place warm in winter and food on the table.

The peace and quiet ever surrounding the place permeated everything else, them included. The light was fading fast, the wind cool now and strong enough to rustle the leaves overhead and blow strands of hair about Sara's face. The storm was moving closer, if the distant, sporadic rumbles of thunder were to be trusted. They would have to remember to batten down the hatches.

"Doc was right," he said when they'd finished eating and just sat there enjoying each other's company and sipping the wine, "this place, it's…good for us."

Sara smiled, nodded, then brought her glass to her lips and took a small sip while she scanned her eyes over their surroundings. "Maybe we ought to buy a place like this," she said, refocusing on him. "I mean, it's only an hour away from Vegas, and I can't imagine cabins like these are all that expensive. We could come at the weekends, or even for a daytrip, and leave all the madness behind."

Grissom pursed his mouth as he thought her suggestion over. His gaze settled on their clothes and shoes and his poor straw hat hung out to dry on the makeshift clothesline he'd tied round a couple of trees. His face lit up as underneath he spotted a white-tailed antelope ground squirrel, poised completely still as he watched them.

"We have a visitor," he said in a whisper, catching her eye and gently pointing in the dim light toward the squirrel. "He's patiently waiting for our scraps."

Sara looked over at where he was indicating and giggled. "I wonder what else is lurking around, watching us," she said, scanning her eyes upward.

"Bats, desert bighorn sheep, cottontail rabbits," he opened out his hand toward their new friend, "ground squirrels and snakes and coyotes of course, to name but a few."

Sara's mouth twitched with a smile but she bit back her retort, taking another sip of wine instead. A companionable silence settled between the two again until she asked, "What else did Doc say?"

Grissom's gaze averted to his wine. He picked up his glass and slowly drank from it, choosing his words carefully.

"He knows we're having problems," she said, pre-empting his next words, and he looked up at her, nodding. "He kind of guessed. He was asking questions and…"

"It's okay," Grissom said softly, "You don't have to explain. I know it's been a tough time for you, and me being away so much―"

"I'm lonely," she said quickly, as though scared that if she didn't say the words fast enough she wouldn't say them at all, and the candour and openness in her words, in her tone and features surprised him. "When you're not there, I come home to nothing but Hank and…" she gave an empty laugh, "I live mostly in the bedroom. I eat there, work there, sleep there. I―"

He reached across the table for her hand, and she let her words drift off with a sigh. "I know it's not your fault," she went on. "I know you got to work and that work takes you away from home for long periods of time."

Grissom sighed and nodded. "I told you. I will try to cut back on the travelling, but sometimes the places I go to are remote and it can't be helped."

Sara's smile was faint. "I know."

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze that he hoped showed he shared her sadness on the matter. But as it stood, jobs for someone of his age and experience were scarce in the Vegas area at the moment on account of all the budget cuts. "Did…did you tell Al…" He trailed off with a sigh, his eyes lowering from her as he searched for the right words to bring their daughter up in the conversation, "Does he know about…"

"Jasmine?" she prompted.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he met her gaze and nodded, and she shook her head in reply. Maybe their preliminary visit to Patricia Alwick had set things in motion, he wondered, and Sara was finally beginning to open up about Jasmine. Or maybe it was simply the wine, or the fading light, or even the healing powers of the place but something was happening. They stared at each other briefly before it became too hard. Eyes shining in the night, Sara leaned forward, reaching for the bottle of wine, and poured herself some.

"More?" she then asked him.

He nodded his head again and she topped up his glass.

"No one knows, well, apart from Russell now," she said, and then with a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, "And your _friend_, the therapist."

"She's not my _friend_," he defended in good-humour, "But she _did_ help me when Warrick died, and I hope she can help us too."

They had shown a united front on their visit, a loving couple who desperately wanted their marriage to work. And for that to happen they needed to deal with their loss, however painful the process might be, and look forward to the future. Patricia had suggested that at some point they organised a memorial service to remember Jasmine by and acknowledge her short life with them. She suggested they used the occasion to share their daughter with all their friends and family, whom they hadn't told about their loss.

Sara wasn't ready for that yet, she still had far too many conflicting emotions over her loss to sort through, but she hadn't said no and he hoped that in time they would be able to do that. For too short a time he had been a father. No one but Sara knew, not even his mother, and he wanted everyone to know. He was a father, a father without a child, but a father nevertheless. But he wouldn't push her on the issue, and when she lapsed into silence, staring intently at her glass of wine, seemingly losing herself in her thoughts, he let her.

They had time, all the time in the world.

It was pitch black when some hours later he woke up with a start, roused by a sharp, loud crack of thunder. He waited a beat on the alert, his heart pounding but heard no more, the only sound that of the wind whistling through the trees outside and the cracks in the cabin walls and roof. The rain hadn't yet started. He turned over, his hand instinctively seeking Sara but instead of a warm body lying next to him he found cold sheets.

He pushed the covers and got up and was pulling clothes on when a flash of lightening lit up the room, followed seconds later by another loud crack of thunder. He noticed then that the clothes she'd been wearing earlier were gone, and that Hank's basket at the foot of the bed was empty. He pushed his feet into his training shoes and opened the bedroom door into the main room of the cabin, fully expecting to find them there. It too was empty. Quickly, while he was finishing getting dressed, he scanned his eyes over the table top, the mantle top, over the shelves on the old dresser, over the rest of the sparse furniture for a note or a clue as to her whereabouts, but came up blank.

Another flash of lightning streaked the room, followed by the resonating crack of thunder, the storm well and truly upon them now. Her waterproof jacket wasn't on the hook anymore and he felt his temper rise at the thought that she'd gone out into the night, into the storm without a care for hers or Hank's safety. He yanked his coat off the hook and shrugged it on. Fear gripped him. The front door was shut but unbolted, and Grissom wrenched it open with far much more force that was necessary. The wind was howling outside, the trees bending and swaying under its mighty force.

Standing on the porch he let his eyes adjust to the new light, then frantically scanned them over the front yard, to the side where the car was still parked, down what he could see of the track and then to the woods beyond. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was about to shout out her name when she called his, a quiet, hoarse whisper he mistook for the wind until he turned to his right and found her and Hank huddled together on an old wooden swing bench. Her hair was blowing about her face, but she looked fine, if a little edgy, but otherwise safe. Hank was watching him too, his head resting on her lap. He blew out a long breath of relief and shook his head while she gave an empty chuckle of disbelief.

"You ought to give me a little more credit," she told him, knowing exactly what he'd been thinking.

His shoulder rose, contrite that he had immediately assumed the worst. "I'm sorry," he said with half-smile, "I woke up, and you weren't there." The storm made its presence known again and he paused. "I panicked."

The anxious look in her eyes faded, softened by the smile tugging at her lips. "I couldn't sleep," she said, as if that alone explained everything.

He nodded at her, then refocused on the wilderness outside. "It's going to rain soon."

He glanced over at her and she smiled, scooting over on the bench to make space for him. Hank gave a long yawn, then climbed down from the bench and went out in the night in search of a tree. Grissom sat down beside her, and she shifted position, curling her legs under her and nestling the side of her face against his shoulder. Grissom opened out his arm, wrapping it around her shoulder, holding her to him tight.

"You okay?" he asked in a soft voice, and felt her nod against him.

"Just thinking, you know."

He turned toward her and met her gaze. "About the case?"

She shook her head, but didn't say any more, so he settled his gaze on a patch of sky between the trees and waited her out. Another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating everything around, and a few seconds later thunder rumbled again. The wind seemed to calm suddenly, but he was sure it was only a matter of minutes before it picked up again. The proverbial calm before the storm, he thought, smiling to himself. Hank returned, lying down at his feet.

"I'm surprised he isn't more scared by the storm, actually," he remarked pleasantly.

Sara didn't reply. He looked over at her, but her gaze was fixed on a spot in the middle distance. "This place…this storm," she said, "it reminds me of the Corcovado reserve."

"In Costa Rica?"

She glanced at him and nodded. "I was so happy then." Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly and she looked away. "We were making a new life with each other."

"And we have," he said quietly but positively, and tightening his hold on her pressed a kiss to her temple.

Again she nodded, but her nod seemed somewhat unconvinced to him. He watched powerless as her tears spilled. "I'm scared, Gil," she blurted out suddenly, and turned fearful eyes toward him, "I'm scared to try again. I know you want to."

He hesitated a fraction before nodding his head at her. Honesty and openness, even if it hurt, was what Patricia Alwick had advised if they wanted to heal and move forward. And he wanted that above everything else.

"I found the leaflets in your car. I―" she sighed.

"We know what went wrong, Sara," he told her earnestly. "We know _why_ Jasmine died. This time would be different. We would take _every_ precaution so it didn't happen again. You and the baby would be monitored every step of the way, the tracheloplasty would help…"

Sara was shaking her head, cutting his words short, then wiped at her tears. "I feel so empty inside. I don't know if another baby would fill that void."

"Would you want it to?" he asked softly.

Shock registered on her face, and he shrugged, as though the answer to the question held the key. It began to rain; hard, relentless rain that soaked through the trees, collecting into puddles everywhere and splashing up on his feet. Sara repressed a shiver and he ran his hand up and down her arm. Hank got up and looked up at them, then moved toward the door, his message clear. Despite the rain and chill in the air neither Grissom nor Sara made a move to go back indoors. They remained under the shelter of the porch, holding each other, silently watching the storm. Hank gave a whimper of discontent and settled himself down as close to the building as he could.

"I mean, we were agreed, right?" Grissom went on quietly after a moment, and turned toward Sara. He paused, waiting until she looked over at him to add, "We wouldn't have children. And we were both happy with that. And then we fell pregnant and we watched Jasmine grow. Everything changed. And even though she wasn't born yet we loved her, she was part of our life, an extension of us." He swallowed the constriction in his throat. "She made us stronger, made us whole, a family. And I think that when she died, our family died too, that when we lost her, we lost each other too."

He stopped again. Sara wasn't looking at him anymore. Her watery gaze stared dead ahead into nothingness, and he wasn't sure she was even listening to him anymore. Still, he made himself push on and open up to her. Hiding what he felt hadn't worked and it was time he tried a different approach. "I would love to have another baby. The thought of having another miscarriage fills me with dread, but although there is a chance of one there is also a chance that everything will be fine this time. I know you blame yourself―"

"When she was born she was alive, Gil, not dead." Her words stole his breath. She turned her heartbroken face toward him and shrugged. "I watched her die." Her lips pinched, trembling. "She was born alive," she went on in a breathless whisper. "I got to see her fight for every shallow breath she took, and there was nothing I could do to help her. I just watched and cried. She was too small to save, the doctors said, _trop_ _petite_. I still hear their voices now, their broken English. I still see the helplessness and sorrow in their eyes. I got to watch her, I got to hold her until there was no heartbeat and she didn't move anymore, and it was all my fault."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he gasped, shocked by her revelation.

She wiped at another tear. "You weren't there," she said, and there was no reproach in her voice, just sadness and resignation, "it was easier that way. They called you, left messages, they said, but by the time you got there it was all over."

He'd been away on a day trip to northern France, near Amiens, his cell out of range, and he'd only gotten the message that Sara had been rushed to hospital after it was too late. He shifted on the bench so he could look at her as he spoke.

"When I got the message from the hospital and realised what had happened and that I hadn't been there, that you had to go through all that alone, I just broke apart. I sat in the back of that taxi and just fell apart, Sara. I tried calling the hospital to tell them I was on my way but…" his words drifted in a helpless sigh, "I was already too late. When I finally got there and found you, I told myself you needed me to be strong when you couldn't be. So I put my feelings aside and went through the motions, did all the things that were expected of me. It was easier for me to cope that way, but I realise that it's because of that that we broke apart and drifted away from each other."

She lifted her hand, stopping his words. "That wasn't all you," she said, and gave him a trembling smile, "I played my part too. We can't change what happened, that day or ever since―"

"But we can change our future," he said.

She met his gaze and stared at him, right at him, as though she could see straight to his soul for a very long time before slowly nodding her head. Then she swung her legs out from under her and stood up. "Come," she said, holding her hand out to him, "There's something I want to show you."

Frowning he took her hand and followed her inside the cabin, Hank at his heels. They shut the door on the storm and divested themselves of their wet shoes and jackets. The room was dark, and Sara fumbled for the camping light, which she turned on. A faint glow flickered at first, but it soon grew bright enough to light up the table and area around it. Without a word, she went to the bedroom.

Unsure of what was going on, Grissom put the teakettle on the stove and set about making them some tea. He flicked his eyes up toward the ceiling and marvelled at the fact that rain wasn't seeping through every crack in the building. Sara came back, carrying the sports bag she'd packed her clothes in. She hauled it onto the table and waited until he joined her with two steaming mugs to unzip it. With growing puzzlement he set Sara's tea down on the table, then pulled up a chair and sat down, the mug in his hand, warming him.

Lips pinching and stealing a look in his direction, Sara opened the bag and took out the hospital box that contained the few things they had left of their daughter before setting the bag on the floor. The mug of tea was shaking in his hand and he blindly set it down on the table. His gaze was fixed on the box, wide, unblinking. Realising what they were about to do he raised shocked eyes to her face. She met his gaze then, and gave him a shy, hesitant smile. "I think it is time," she said, and he could only nod at her.

Slowly she pulled up a chair next to him and placed the box on the table between them. They stared at it for a while, silent and contemplative, neither moving to open it. _Hôpitaux de Paris _and_ Bébé Grissom _stared back at him. The emotion churning inside him was so overwhelming in its intensity that he felt queasy. Suddenly it was too much, and he understood why in all these years Sara had never been able to open the box.

"We don't have to do it," he said in a whisper, and swallowed hard. "I mean, not now. There's time."

"No. I want to do it." She flashed him a tense smile. "It's just hard, you know. Us talking like that has brought back a lot of memories, a lot of pain."

She was being brave, finally taking the step he'd been willing her to take for so long, and he was chickening out. He reached for her hand on her lap and gave it a squeeze he hoped was both understanding and encouraging. "Why don't we open the box together?"

She gave him a small nod and together they slowly lifted the lid. The smell that escaped, their daughter's scent, hit him like wave. He scrunched his eyes shut at the searing pain, the sense of loss that filled him. The box wasn't crammed full of stuff, as one might have expected, quite the opposite in fact, and again he wondered why the hospital had given them such a big box for so few memories.

Inside, and he didn't need to look to remember, was an ID bracelet with Jasmine's birth number on it – it had been far too big for her tiny wrist and she'd never worn it; Sara's matching one, mother and daughter shared the same number; the blanket Jasmine had been wrapped in and a plaster cast of her right hand and foot. The nursing staff, sadly all too used to such tragedies, had suggested they had the moulding done, and he was glad they'd accepted. There were no photographs, Sara had refused, and he wondered whether she regretted that decision now.

Sara moved beside him and he reopened his eyes. She'd taken out the folded blanket and was holding it to her face. The bloodstains were still there, only they appeared much darker now, almost black against the yellowed white of the cotton. Her eyes were closed and she took in a deep breath of it. She remained like so for a minute maybe before she lowered the blanket from her face and met his gaze. She was remarkably composed.

"Did I tell you that they let me hold her?" she asked in a choked voice, running her hand over the material, "Before she…" she swallowed and shrugged, meeting his eyes again as she wiped a tear off her cheek. "I held her. She was so small, barely there." Her words trailed off, her gaze became distant.

Grissom's eyes averted to the box. He'd held Jasmine too, but too late and he knew it wasn't the same as holding her while she'd still been alive. He'd never felt the connection like Sara had. "I wish I could have been there," he said in a low voice, and brought his gaze back up. Sara was watching him with tears in her eyes, and he blew out a long breath, closing his eyes and letting his tears fall. "I wish I could have gotten to meet her too."

He heard her chair scrape on the wooden floor as she got up. Her arms wrapped around him, and she pulled him to her, holding him tightly to her and rocking them gently. His arms came up, wrapping around her waist and finally they allowed themselves to cry for their daughter together. It had taken them three years, almost to the day, but at last they were beginning to mourn their loss.

It was almost dawn when they finally went back to bed, shutting the door on Hank asleep and snoring in front of the wood burner. They undressed in the dark, slipped under the covers in the dark and made love in the dark, their moans and gasps and cries drowned out by the rain still beating down on the roof outside.

The next day Grissom woke up at noon to a dull and overcast day and drizzling rain. He got up to stoke the fire, and let Hank out. After a trip to the bathroom he made some tea and took it back to bed, gratefully slipping his cold feet under the covers. Sara let out a moan of discontent and moved her legs away from him. He nudged himself closer, looking for warmth, finding it.

"You're cold," she mumbled and turned away, pulling all the covers to her in the process.

He shuffled up behind her and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. "Good morning to you too, Little Miss Grumpy."

"I'm not…grumpy. Just…" She turned over so she faced him, and opened her eyes. "Still raining?"

He gave her a nod, then shuffling up half-lying, half-sitting against the headboard reached for his tea. He took a sip, and offered her some. She declined with a shake of the head, and draping an arm over his midriff nuzzled her face against his side. She closed her eyes and let out a low moan of contentment. He smiled; it was nice to feel so close and connected to her again, not only physically but also emotionally.

"You okay?" he asked, leaving his 'after what happened last night' unsaid.

She nodded against his chest. "This is the best I've felt in a very long time," she said after a beat, glancing up toward him. "At long last, it feels like the veil has lifted, like we don't need to tiptoe around each other. I still hurt, but it's…"

He brushed his lips to the top of her head. "It's not so all-consuming, so very overwhelming," he finished for her. She nodded her agreement and resettled herself against him, and as they lapsed into a contented silence he took another sip of his tea.

"What do you suggest we do?" she asked after a moment. "Today, I mean."

He pursed his face thoughtfully. "We can do whatever we want."

Her hand snuck under his top, trailing up over his stomach to his chest, her fingers threading through the soft greying hairs. Her eyes were still closed. He didn't think she'd meant for her caress to be sexual – it seemed inadvertent somehow, almost automatic in its execution – but his body stirred nonetheless.

"I think I saw a Scrabble game somewhere," she said, glancing up toward him.

He reached over to put his tea down on the bedside table. "Are you challenging me?" he asked, a smile played round the edges of his mouth as he met her gaze.

"What if I was?"

His smile widened. "Then you know very well that I'd always take you up on it."

His words seemed to give her pause, and he frowned. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of excitement that he hadn't seen in a very long time. It was like someone had turned the light back on inside her, and he could see its glow through the windows of her soul.

"We're not talking about Scrabble anymore, are we?" he asked, sobering up.

Sara gave a very slow shake of the head in reply. He glimpsed hesitancy in her gaze now, sudden doubt that maybe she'd taken one step too far, too quickly. She hadn't – not as far as he was concerned anyway.

"So what are you saying?" he asked again, afraid to believe where his thoughts were taking him.

Her shoulder lifted. "Not to give up on me?"

Friday came round all too soon. This week away had given them peace and a much needed clarity as to where they were headed with their lives. They had finally begun to talk, really talk, and although their issues weren't all resolved Grissom knew that they were on the same road to recovery. The car was loaded, the cabin all clean and tidied, locked up and secured against foraging animals and the elements. Hank was having one last sniff around the place, he too seemingly a little forlorn to be leaving. Sara was watching his antics with a fond smile on her face.

"Ready to go back?" he asked her.

She looked over at him. "No. You?"

He shook his head, then reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Come on," he said, "Let's not put it off any longer. Maybe we can stop and grab some lunch on the way."

With a nod and a wistful sigh, Sara walked over to the passenger side, and opening the back door he whistled for Hank to come. "He doesn't want to leave either," she laughed.

Grissom paused. "Maybe, you're right," he said, "About us getting a place like this, I mean. Maybe we ought to look into it, see what's out there."

Sara's face lit up and she nodded. "I'd like that," she said.

Hank clambered into the car and Grissom slammed the door shut. He turned the key in the ignition and lowered all the windows. Immediately, the car's interior filled with the subtle scents of the place. Sara's grin was wide as she scanned her eyes all around her, committing every inch of the place to memory. They would be back; he had no doubts about that. Maybe not at Doc's cabin itself, but somewhere very much like it.

* * *

The sun shone brightly on the day of Melinda Carver's funeral. Grissom and Sara arrived just as the service was beginning and slipped in at the back, unnoticed. The chapel was small, ten pews on each side, but large enough to contain the twenty or so mourners gathered there. Not very many people at all, Grissom pondered sadly.

The last time he had been in a church on such a sombre occasion was for Warrick's funeral and he remembered the day all too clearly. As the congregation sat down after the first hymn, his thoughts drifted from his dear friend to his beloved daughter and he found himself praying that they both rest in peace. His hand found his wife's on her lap, and they remained entwined for the rest of the service.

Later as he followed the coffin out of the chapel Geoffrey Carver caught and held their gazes briefly. His eyes were red-rimmed, his grief over the loss of his wife obvious. Timothy was at his side, holding his hand tightly. Both wore matching black suits, white shirts and ties, and solemn expressions. Timothy had been crying too, but like his father he was putting on a brave face.

Sara offered Carver a small smile and Timothy a bigger one while Grissom simply nodded his respects. Carver seemed touched by Sara's presence there and he returned their greeting shakily. The exchange only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough for Grissom to know that coming had been the right thing to do.

"You mind if we follow on to the cemetery?" Sara asked as the coffin was being loaded into the hearse.

Grissom shook his head, and they followed the small procession to a cemetery nearby. Grissom and Sara opted to stand at the edge of the path, away from the graveside so as not to intrude. The coffin was being lowered into the ground when Grissom noticed George Cooper standing twenty feet away from them in the shadows of some trees. She wore large black sunglasses and a sombre pant suit. At least, he thought, she had the decency to stay far back.

Discreetly he nudged Sara's arm, indicating with a slight tilt of the head George's presence at the cemetery. He felt her body tense beside him as she looked. Her gaze narrowed, and he wondered briefly whether she would go and confront the woman. She didn't, which somewhat surprised him. She simply turned her gaze back toward Carver and Timothy still at the graveside, looking in the other direction.

Carver thanked the officiant. Mourners began to drift away, a few patting him and Timothy on their way, but not many. Bending down, Carver had a word to his son and the little boy nodded gravely. Carver spoke again, then held out his hand to his son and together they walked away toward where Grissom and Sara were standing near the cars. Timothy stopped walking suddenly, tugging at his father's hand and pointing toward George. So Timothy had recognised her, Grissom thought. After a moment's hesitation Carver instructed Timothy to stay where he was and changed course, marching straight to George.

Carver stopped a few feet away from the woman and Grissom watched as he pointed a finger at her, a heated exchange ensuing between the two. From where they stood Grissom couldn't hear what was being said, but from their body language they weren't sharing condolences. Sara made to walk over to Timothy but Grissom held her back by the hand. He knew what her intention was; she wanted to check the little boy for clues, for signs of distress, to see whether his recognising his mother's lover had triggered recollections of the murder.

Carver turned his heels on George abruptly, leaving her mid-rant, and returned to his son's side. Timothy spoke and Carver shook his head, smiling. He took his son's hand and they walked over to them. "Mr Carver," Grissom said, smiling as he extended his hand, "I'm Gil Grissom. Sara's husband. I'm sorry for your loss."

Carver acknowledged his words with a nod and shook his hand, then smiled at Sara. "Thank you for coming," he said. "It was nice of you to do that."

Sara returned the smile. "How are you two doing?" she asked, her eyes flicking down to Timothy standing slightly back.

Carver's smile faded. He glanced at his son and shrugged, "You know. We're taking one day at a time, but it's tough. Night time especially." Grissom nodded that he understood, that he knew all about the kind of nightmares that would be plaguing the little boy for years to come, then looked over at his wife who was smiling down at Timmy. Carver reached over to ruffle his son's hair. "It's just us now, isn't it, Timmy?"

"Daddy, can we go now?" Timothy asked, pulling at his father's hand. "You said we could go for ice cream."

Carver smiled down at his son and nodded his head. Then he looked up, his expression sheepish at how insensitive his son's words might appear to be in the circumstance. Sara reached out a hand, patting Carver on the arm and smiling. "Life goes on," she told him, and he nodded his head at her. With one last parting smile father and son turned away, headed to the car. Carver opened the back door for Timothy to get in, then leaned in to strap the seatbelt across him. An everyday gesture made by every parent all over the world, but it tugged at Grissom's heartstrings.

"Come on," he told Sara, draping his arm across her shoulders and leading her to their own car, "Let's go. We can go for ice cream too if you want."

His comment garnered a smile. She looked over her shoulder toward where George had been, but she was gone. He was opening the car door for her when she met his gaze earnestly. She reached up a hand, lovingly cupping his cheek, and smiled. Her eyes shone with that same bright light as they had that morning a week ago in the cabin. He felt emotion bubble up inside him.

"Let's do it," she said, "Let's try again."


End file.
